


What We Build Together

by Ebozay



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-27 14:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21120086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebozay/pseuds/Ebozay
Summary: Years have passed since ALIE’s defeat.Clarke lost people along the way, some she cared for more than others. People even tried to kill her, almost too many for her to count and still she survived.And so some said her survival through the years was because of the Commander, while others said it was simply because she was Wanheda, the Commander of Death, the one most clans looked to for guidance in times of uncertainty, or as a source of blame in times of trouble.But when the deaths kept piling higher and higher could she really be blamed for leaving everything behind?Maybe it was selfish that Clarke now lived a life of solitude tucked away in the depths of Trikru territory in a small cabin she had built almost entirely on her own. But she didn’t care when the only thing expected of her was only what she expected of herself.But her past always had a way of catching up to her, especially when it involved the Commander.





	1. Prologue

A gentle breeze crept its way around Clarke. Windows were opened to the heat of the summer day. Rays of light captured motes of dust within their grasp as if their motions were frozen in place. Through her open window Clarke could see that the sun sat so very high above, barely a cloud could be seen and the blue of the sky would have brought a smile to her lips at any other time.

The sounds of horses outside fought their way to the forefront of her attention and she knew River must be making a nuisance of herself, she knew River would probably be nipping at the horses that must have approached too closely.

“I can have my warriors move further away,” the words shouldn’t make Clarke want to cry, the timber of her voice shouldn’t make Clarke want to break and shatter. Not after all these years.

But for some reason they did. They always did.

And so Clarke looked back to the emerald speckled eyes that stared at her with such intensity that it made her skin crawl. The Commander looked at her with the same intensity as she had always done, and though they had grown, they had drifted apart and they had come together at different times, her eyes had never seemed to change, those emotions, however well hidden they had been, were always there for Clarke to see if she let herself look hard enough.

“It’s ok,” Clarke said. “River just isn’t used to more than just me and her,” and Clarke couldn’t help but to smile at a memory long since faded to the wind.

“I remember when I first gifted her to you,” the Commander said, and Clarke saw the hints of a smile upon the Commander’s lips.

“Yeah,” Clarke said quietly and she tried not to think back to that time, if only because the pain she had still felt had been unbearable at times.

“Sorry,” the Commander whispered, and Clarke watched as the Commander’s hand subconsciously reached out for her own before she seemed to come to her senses and pull it back to her side of the table.

“It’s ok,” Clarke said, and it was true. She knew she shouldn’t dwell on the past as much as she did. But it was hard when she was reminded of things that could have been.

“Your people ask of you,” the Commander said gently, her voice enough to break Clarke’s momentary distraction.

“They always do,” and Clarke found herself smiling a somewhat bittersweet thing as she thought of the people she had said goodbye to so very long ago. “Thank you,” she said eventually.

“You asked to be left alone,” the Commander replied, and if those words had come from anyone else Clarke was sure she would have heard resentment or blame, but she heard neither of those things. She never had and she thought she never would. And so the Commander finished, “so I ensure you are left alone.”

Clarke smiled, the expression a little less forced as she took in the way the Commander’s eyes never wavered from hers still. It was odd, too, Clarke thought, as she continued to look at the younger woman before her. It had felt like she had grown closer to the Commander in the years since gone, but it felt different, it felt pained, frayed, somewhere between broken loss and hopeless desires.

“You haven’t come for a while,” Clarke said, and she found herself staring at the ornate piece of metal that sat between the Commander’s eyebrows, that glinted so very vibrantly in the sun.

“The border skirmishes have kept me away,” the Commander said as she looked outwards as if to recall something or someone.

That didn’t surprised Clarke though, she had known the Commander had led her forces in one last routing of those that had been unwelcoming of the new order of things.

“Do you think the peace will last?” Clarke asked, but for some reason she thought she knew the answer already.

“Yes,” and this time the Commander smiled as she looked back at her, the vibrancy of her eyes just as sure as it had once been in memories past. “Of course there are bandits, those who were banished,” and she shrugged as she gestured outwards, the studded leather gloves she wore creaking just barely with the motion. “They will always be a thorn in the Coalition’s side,” she continued. “But after ALIE,” there was a pause, something subtle, but enough for Clarke to see the self admonishment flash across the Commander’s face before she masked it in such a familiar way. “After Azgeda’s rebellion I do not think we will have conflict again.”

“I hope so,” Clarke said, and her voice came out softer than she had meant, but she couldn’t be blamed, and she didn’t think the Commander would hold it against her, either.

“I know you do not see it as such,” the Commander said, and this time she reached out more purposefully and let the warmth of their fingers intertwine. “But you are as much to thank for the peace as the warriors that fought for it.”

Clarke shook her head, perhaps to rid herself of the memories, perhaps to rid herself of the pain and the regrets and she pulled her hand back to the safety of her side with a little more force than she had intended.

“Don’t,” and Clarke’s lips trembled as she took in a deep breath and fought to settle the breaking of her heart. “Don’t, please.”

“Sorry,” it was simple, it was honest, it was as truthful as it had once been so very high up in Polis tower. And though Clarke dared not see the emotions in the emerald eyes that looked at her, though she dared not look longer than a moment’s passing, she knew what she would see. “I have stayed too long,” the Commander’s voice broke the silence.

Clarke watched as the Commander rose from the chair opposite her, the motion regal, elegant, careful and poised.

“A messenger will continue to arrive once a week should you have need for anything,” she said as she turned for the door that separated Clarke from the quiet of the summer’s day.

Clarke wasn’t sure what it was, she wasn’t sure what it could have been, perhaps years of regret, perhaps years of wondering of the things that could have been. But whatever it was made Clarke rise from her chair and steel her breath.

“Hey, wait,” Clarke called out and she watched as the Commander paused by the front door, one hand already beginning to pull it open as she stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“Clarke?” she didn’t know if the Commander meant to say her name in that same way, she didn’t know if the Commander even realise the way she pronounced it.

“Next week, if you’re not busy,” she flinched, if only because she knew she sounded so very childlike in her words. “I wouldn’t be angry if you came instead of the messenger.”

Clarke couldn’t quite reconcile the emotions she felt building within her as she watched the Commander’s lips curl into a smile that seemed so very full of an emotion she recognised. The corners of the woman’s eyes crinkled enough for Clarke to know the emotion genuine, and she watched as the Commander tucked a crimson lock of curly hair behind her ear and nodded to her just once.

“I will be here in a week, Clarke.”

And so Clarke answered;

“I’ll see you in a week, Athena.”


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke’s eyes cracked open to a single ray of light breaking through her partly shuttered blinds. It was early morning yet the sun always seemed to find its way into her bedroom and into her cabin in the woods that was small and made entirely from three different rooms.

The first was her bedroom full of belongings she had collected over the near ten years since she had come to the ground. Small paintings hung from hooks she had nailed into the wooden walls, some depicted landscapes she had visited and had lost herself in their beauty, others showed people she had met along the way, some she remembered more fondly than others, some she sometimes wished she could forget. A simple wardrobe sat in the far corner, and within it hung the clothes she had grown fond of over the years. The centre of her bedroom was dominated by a lush fur, thick and cream in colour.

A yawn escaped past Clarke’s lips as she decided whether to settle deeper into the white furs that covered her, a gift from King Roan she had outwardly been reluctant to accept, but inwardly had been thankful for their warmth in the coldest months.

Despite the sleep that just barely pulled at the corners of Clarke’s mind, she forced herself to sit, to pull the furs from her body and to rise in the cool warmth of the early morning. And so she swung her legs over the side of the bed and she let out a sigh as her toes danced against the fur covered floor.

Clarke, loosely clothed in an oversized cotton shirt and sleep shorts, padded her way to the second of three rooms within her small cabin. On the way there she let her fingers brush against the warmth of the wooden walls, she let her memories recall the hours, the sweat, the pain and the frustration she had felt as she had built the cabin with more stubborn determination than skilled knowledge and she couldn’t help but to smile at the way one of the floorboards underfoot creaked as she stepped in that one perfect spot.

It took Clarke barely six steps before she pushed open a door and entered her washroom. In stark contrast to her bedroom, her washroom was a pristinely neat space. A basket of dirty clothes was kept in one corner, while the beaten brass pipes of a shower-head pointed down into a brass bathtub dominated the opposite wall. Even a small toilet was present with a sink and two shining faucets and a shimmering mirror above.

Raven had been responsible for almost all of what Clarke looked upon. But not directly. It had taken almost three years for Raven to set up plumbing in the nearest towns to Arkadia, and even a year longer before she had been able to even consider working on other clans. Despite how far removed from society Clarke now lived she had been gifted these creature comforts, and that, too, she had accepted with reticence yet she had been inwardly thankful for it during the cold nights that often settled throughout the lands.

And it was with that thought that Clarke shed her clothes, she let them pile at her feet and she fell into the rhythm she had repeated for years.

The heat of the water that struck her body helped to soothe the aches she felt in her muscles, the throb a weary companion to life on the ground. The soap she scrubbed into her flesh lightened her mind and filled the room with the smell of flowers from clans afar and it helped to take her far enough away that just for a moment she could forget.

Scars littered Clarke’s body, some deep with stories so very fabled that she knew, she was certain and sure that if someone were to look upon her they would see nothing but the remnants of the Commander of Death. And yet there were other scars, smaller, perhaps beautiful, maybe even intricate in their appearance, merely the result of a foot poorly placed in the mud, a hammer poorly aimed in fatigue, or a forehead too slowly ducked whilst traipsing through the thickest parts of the forests.

There was beauty in the world. There was beauty in life. It had taken her longer than she cared to admit to recognise, to realise and to understand. But she knew now that the darkest moments of her life, the narrowest points of view she had ever had gave meaning to the times where she laughed, where she smiled, cherished and loved and opened herself up. And she believed it so for she knew there could be no light without shadow, just as there could be no love without pain.

And so Clarke turned her face into the heat of the water and imagined it tearing away the dark, all in the hopes that she would one day see the light.

* * *

The third and last room of Clarke’s cabin was something of a mix between dining room, kitchen and living room. A single large circular table dominated the centre with four chairs arranged around it. A bowl of fruit sat atop with a single candle that kept her company during the nights she could not sleep. On one side of the room was her kitchen, or closest thing to it. A fireplace of stone juxtaposed with the wood of the cabin and was recessed into the wall with a chimney that rose upwards. Pots were neatly laid about, their metal bodies beaten and blackened from years of use. Far enough away from the fireplace stood shelves, their back to the wall, their surfaces full of dried foods, meats, fruits and jars of anything Clarke could ever find herself in need of. She even had the odd spice from lands so very far away that she had dreams of going, of travelling, of taking the time to simply lose herself to the world, and yet she hadn’t done that.

She told herself it was because she didn’t have the time.

But she knew that a lie.

And so Clarke found herself sitting at her main table as she laced up her boots. Clarke needn’t pay too much attention to the movements her fingers made. Instead she found herself looking at the empty stretch of wall on the free side of her cabin. She didn’t entirely know what to put there, even after all the years that had passed. She had at times thought a painting would do, but nothing had seemed to entice her enough to commit to creating such a large canvas. She had thought of trading for a tapestry, a fur, a quilt or some other intricate hanging that had been created with as much care and love as she could find, but that, too, had done little to spark her imagination.

But the sounds of neighing from outside pulled her thoughts to the present and Clarke knew whatever ideas she had would need to wait for she had more pressing issues at hand. Like needing to feed herself for the week.

And so Clarke rose, let her hands pat over the leathers and furs she wore and she reached for the bow and quiver of arrows laid atop the table as she began to move to her front door.

* * *

The early morning air was already beginning to warm by the time Clarke had saddled her horse. River was a mare of somewhat cheeky disposition, a caramel brown coat and an annoying habit of nipping playfully whenever she walked past.

Clarke had given up trying to train her out of it, in part because River was more than stubborn, and in part because River did it only in way of greeting where it wasn’t too hard that it hurt. But still, Clarke found she had to keep herself on her toes around River, especially if she had food nearby.

“Ready?” Clarke asked into the quiet.

River met Clarke’s response with a gentle push of her head, the motion part answer and part play. She laughed, tried not to let River push her again as she took hold of her reins and began leading her out of the small stable River called home. Clarke spared a moment to gauge how much of the hay River had eaten last night and she couldn’t help but sigh, if only because she had expected to find what she did.

“I see you haven’t taken to the hay from the Plains Riders,” Clarke said as she let one of her hands scratch up and down River’s neck.

A snort was the only response she got.

“You’re getting a little bit chunky, River,” and Clarke shifted the packs tied to River’s side a little more tightly together. “It’s better for you than Trikru hay.”

River seemed to side-eye her with far too much awareness for an animal, and Clarke was sure River understood more than she let on.

“Look,” Clarke said as she lifted her foot into a stirrup, “I’ll make you a deal, River,” and at that River’s head perked up. “Each day you eat the new hay, you get an extra apple, deal?”

River flicked an ear in response before she let out a single neigh.

“I knew you’d see reason,” Clarke said with a laugh as she turned back to make sure the gate to River’s stable was closed.

And with that Clarke mounted River in a single motion and clicked out a quiet command, River all too happy to respond as she set off, their routine well rehearsed after so many years.

* * *

The forests Clarke now called home were grand. Trees whose trunks were wide and moss covered reached up into the sky. Their branches fanned out overhead and were covered in so many shadows and beams of light that it made the forest floor seem at times to be a sparkling dream-scape of dappled light and dancing shadow. Birds flit overhead, some happy in their chirp as they sang to neighbour and friend. Others hooted warnings, alarm and any other thing they so desired as Clarke passed by so very far below them.

Even animals could be heard, some small as they skittered and scattered about in the undergrowth, some large and their forms shadowed to the depths of the forests. At first Clarke had been afraid, she had been nervous and unsure of the dangers that lurked behind every towering tree, memories of a mighty pauna, a black wild cat and a river monster always lingering in the depths of her thoughts. But she had found that the parts of the forest that surrounded her cabin had been void of large predators and that the only thing she really had to watch out for was the smallest of birds that seemed content to swoop and dive at her should she venture too close to their hidden nests.

A broken branch and a bare bush caught Clarke’s attention then and she knew it was time to dismount and to leave River in the forests lest she give way her presence any further.

This, too, was a familiar happening for them both, and it didn’t surprise Clarke that River was well trained, that she didn’t run, and that she needn’t tie the mare to a tree, if only because she was sure Athena had chosen a horse that had just as much personality to keep her company in her solitude as it had training to obey when needed.

“Stay, River,” Clarke said quietly as she slid off her back and began to unhook her pack from where she had lashed it to River’s side.

River’s body rippled with contentedness at the weight shed, and Clarke found herself pressing her lips to River’s mighty neck as she scratched River’s chin before she turned to the tracks she had spied just moments earlier.

Clarke spared a second to look over her shoulder for she always worried about leaving River unattended, but as usual she was simply met with River already pulling at the budding fruits of the nearest tree, her mind elsewhere and her worries faraway.

Clarke turned back to the bush and she eyed the stems that had been eaten away, she eyed the depressions left in the muddied dirt and she recognised the kind of small deer that must have come through the lands. As Clarke looked around herself she saw signs of other deers that had grazed on nearby bushes and she knew from the numbers that they would be heading to the gently flowing river that wended its way through the lands without worry or care.

And so Clarke began to move forward, feet sure as she planted them between dry leaf and delicate twig. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and knocked it as she continued to walk, all the while her ears straining to hear the first sounds of the animal she now tracked.

As much as Clarke enjoyed riding atop River, as much as she enjoyed letting herself become lost in the swaying of River’s gait, she found that stalking through the forests had a calming affect on her. She thought it perhaps in part because she needn’t rely on anyone or anything else other than herself, she thought it perhaps in part because she was closest to the ground and that she could forget her worries, and she thought it perhaps in part because it forced her to keep her mind focused, to keep her mind on the task at hand and to discard any wandering thoughts should they suddenly feel the need to become more vocal than she liked.

Clarke paused by another grazed upon bush, she reached out to a broken tree twig, the pad of her finger brushed against the sap and she knew the animals must be close.

And so she set off again, but this time she moved more quietly, each step she took more consciously considered than the last. Even the wind seemed to settle into a calming stillness around her, the leaves swayed not to the breeze and even the others animals, airborne and home to the ground quietened their chatter.

Clarke let the creaking of the bowstring held in her fingers lose itself to the wind, she let the weathered and smoothened wood of her bow warm her palm and she tried not to make too much noise as she slowed her steps and came to the gentlest of stops at the forest’s edge.

In front of Clarke sprawled the lazy river. It trickled and bubbled across the lands to pool at a grand lake almost two days ride from her cabin. The mud that had been underfoot in the depths of the forest slowly turned into hard packed dirt and then to pebbles and driftwood that had been at one time swallowed by the river before being discarded where it pleased. Those pebbles that made up the river’s edge were smoothed to the elements, their colour was rich in browns, reds, ochres and yellows and dusty greys that all bled together to create a cacophony of earthen warmth.

At the river’s edge Clarke saw the animals she had been stalking. Five drank from the flowing water, their coats a mixture of browns and dusted whites that blended with the pebbles under-hoof.

Clarke took a moment to consider what to do next, but she ordered her thoughts as quickly as they had come. She took in a steadying breath as she began to draw back her bowstring. The creaking rhythm that she felt settled her mind and she took aim at the second furthest deer, this one with its side most exposed to her for as clean a kill as possible.

Clarke spent the next half second casting aside the regret she always felt at taking life and then she fired.

The arrow snapped forward in a flash. It whistled through the air for only a split second and then it struck true. The other deers bolted an instant after she had fired, even the one she targeted began to move but it was too late.

The sound of her arrow striking the deer was almost more like a snap, a crack, a quiet gunshot that just barely echoed out around her. And this was the part Clarke never quite enjoyed. The deer let out something of a startled and pained cry, its shout frayed at the edges as it began to move, as it began to seek shelter from whatever pain had struck it. But it didn’t get far, perhaps only five or six great leaps across the river’s edge before it collapsed on the ground. Its chest rose once, twice, a third time before it shuddered to a stop as a pool of blood began to seep out underneath its body.

Clarke rose from where she had remained crouched in the shadows, she shifted her bow to her back and she cast her gaze outwards as she began to move towards the now dead deer. Regret was something Clarke had come to accept, it was something she perhaps didn’t even truly feel anymore, if only because she knew it would consume her, she knew it had done so once before. But still, she could feel sorry and a remorse for the life she had taken. And so, as she came to kneel down beside the deer’s body she found her hand already coming to rest atop its brown speckled coat.

It was a cruel contrast, the things she saw. Though her fingers were met by the warmth of the animal, though her fingers were greeted by the softness of its fur, the way its eyes stared outwards made her want to recoil, the way the blood pooled out from its wound made her think of the life it had lived, the conflict it must have survived and the stories she had stopped before they had a chance to play out.

“I’m sorry, little one,” Clarke said quietly as she pulled her arrow free.

And with that Clarke went about preparing the deer for the weighted trip back to where she had left River in the forest.

* * *

Nighttime settled over the lands late during summer. Clarke was never quite completely certain of the time anymore, but if she had to guess she’d say it must have been at least later than six, perhaps even seven in the evening.

The sun had taken residence lower in the sky, its light had darkened to a mellow gold and the heat of the long afternoon was slowly beginning to cool. The deer she had hunted would feed her for the week easily, perhaps even longer if she went through the effort of drying the meat. Its hide she would use, perhaps its purpose not so clear in her mind just yet, but its use a certainty. Even its bones, useful for crafting tools, objects and intricate belongings, and its organs could be used as offal, as a way of making hearty a meal of roots and vegetables should she ever have a poor streak of hunts.

And so Clarke sighed as she finished twisting shut the last of her jars of soon to be pickled meat. Sweat lingered to Clarke’s forehead, her forearms burned a little from the exertion of her day’s events and still she knew she needed to brush River lest she become a little too nippy come morning light.

But Clarke didn’t mind, if only because she enjoyed River’s company as much as she was sure the mare enjoyed hers. She thought it was a special bond they had created, yet perhaps no different to any other master of beast. But at least she knew River expected nothing of her except her company and her care for the things she couldn’t do herself. And Clarke was all too happy to do those things, she was all too happy to scratch River behind the ear, under the chin or to feed her a too sweet apple on the occasions she was feeling generous.

And that was why Clarke now lived the life she did. It was why she had walked away from her people almost five years ago, it was why she had visited Arkadia only three times since settling in the forests. She had sent letters, of course. She had even sent a painting, a drawing, even a fur or two, just enough to tell those she cared for that she was well, that she was as sane as could be expected and that she had things to do to keep her mind busy.

But she had grown tired of the blame, of the judgement, of the expectations. At first she thought she could manage, but as the deaths kept coming, as the anguish and the remorse and regrets always seemed to flow with no ebb in sight, she had cracked. She had broken. And she had left.

The clans had survived. Not without their troubles though. ALIE had been defeated and in her wake the clans had threatened Skaikru, had threatened to destroy them and to rid tech from the lands once and for all. But the absence of a nightblood, of a rightful heir to the throne had stayed their hand. At least for a little while.

But things were always complicated on the ground.

And so it didn’t really surprise Clarke to find that there had been a nightblood discovered at the furthest reaches of the Coalition’s territory, whose bringing to Polis had been delayed by her people’s appearance, whose absence in Polis had saved their life when Ontari had cut down every one of the nightbloods under Lexa’s care.

Athena was her name. An adolescent, a woman, a youth, all those things had been thrown at her, and all those things had been true, if only because the young grew old so very quickly on the ground. Athena had rode into Polis atop a shimmering black steed with the last scouts of the flamekeeper order in tow and Clarke had been there to greet the woman who had only just turned fifteen, only four years younger than herself.

Athena had been wide eyed, she had been nervous, she had been unsure of her place amongst the fabled halls of Polis tower. But she had been an accomplished warrior, she had been tested in battle already, and with no other nightbloods able to challenge her for the flame she had ascended.

And it was that moment that had sealed Clarke’s fate.

She had been present when that blue chip had been cut into Athena’s neck, she had been there when Athena had remained motionless for almost three days, she had been there with uncertainty plaguing her mind as she tried to reconcile the fact that Lexa had been nothing more than a vessel, a shadow, a shell of something that had been passed down from Commander to Commander as if they were nothing more than a courier. And Clarke had believed it. She told herself that simply because Lexa’s death had shattered her, it had torn her apart and left her in pieces. When she had seen Lexa in the city of light she had felt a relief, a want and a loss and longing all over again. In her heartbreak she had told herself that giving the flame up, that letting Athena ascend would let her in some way hold on to the memory of Lexa with just a little more solidity.

But reality was often so very different than dreams.

Athena had woken and Clarke knew. She knew in the way Athena had looked at her, she knew in the way the younger girl had stared at her with unblinking eyes full of an emotion that she had seen in one other.

And it broke her. The realisation that Lexa had been nothing more than a chip, that she had never known who the Lexa before the flame truly was had shattered her to pieces. But love wasn’t rational, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t kind and it wasn’t just.

Clarke couldn’t accept it, despite how much she had hoped for the answers and the chances she now had. She couldn’t reconcile the emotions she saw in Athena’s eyes when she looked at her with a face that wasn’t Lexa’s. She couldn’t reconcile the way Athena had begun to say her name with a voice that wasn’t Lexa’s. And Clarke accepted none of those things for she was disgusted with herself, she was furious and so very desperately broken.

And so, despite all the things Clarke told herself and others about why she now lived a life of solitude?

Deep down she knew the reason why was because she was afraid Lexa had never died.

Right?


	3. Chapter 3

Overhead flew great birds, their wings so large as they soared through the sky. Barely a cloud could be seen, and what clouds did exist were nothing but wisps of faint white against the brilliant blue of the late morning.

Apple trees planted in great row upon row stretched out as far as the eye could see and grass as green as the moss upon weathered tree softened each step that was taken. Each apple tree was home to more ripening fruits than could be counted, the season’s bounty plentiful and welcomed. Some birds brave enough to test the few who walked the orchard picked at those apples that had been unfortunate enough to fall to the ground, and there were even signs of small forest animals that had darted underfoot, had snuck to and fro in the greatest of heists in search of too sweet an apple.

Alexandria took in a deep breath as she rested under the shade of a looming apple tree. She always liked the scents that wafted on the summer breeze, she always liked the heat, if only because it made her feel alive, it made her feel energised and it made her welcome the cooled drink that always waited on her return should she have the desire.

She took the moment she stole to rest against the tree, a hand quick to swipe at a lock of brown hair that had fallen free of her simple braids. Sweat seemed to catch a strand and seal it against her forehead with just enough annoyance that she could be forgiven for scowling, for trying to blow it free though she knew that a fruitless task.

And so she sighed, she set herself down on the ground and she reached for an apple in the basket that rested beside her. Alexandria kicked her legs out in front of her and she enjoyed the coolness of the grass. The summers were hot, sometimes uncomfortably, but they were pleasant, mostly because she wore sandals that let her feet breathe, and the bottoms she wore, part pleated skirt and part airy pant did much to let the breeze cool her during the hottest days. Her arms were bare, too, the cotton singlet loose fitting upon her slender shoulders.

The apple she bit into was sweet, it crunched with each bite and she tried not to make too much of a sticky mess as the juices threatened to spill down her fingers. But she didn’t mind, not when most would have done the same during the hottest of the day. But still, she didn’t think she could forgive herself for being too childlike and carefree, after all, she thought it not quite becoming of someone in her position.

Movement flashed in the corner of her eye and Alexandria smiled as she turned her attention to the blur of red-browns that flashed from shadow to shadow, from apple tree to apple tree. A squirrel, not much bigger than what she could fit in both hands darted from fallen apple to fallen apple. She watched as it stopped at apple after apple only to discard them with what could only be described as disappointed disgust as it found bruise or other sign that the apple not quite up to standard.

A smile crept across her lips as she continued to watch the squirrel as it began to move closer and closer to her though, each bounding flash it took bringing it close enough that if Alexandria was to pounce she was sure she could catch it. But she saw it pause, she saw it sniff at the air, its attention squarely upon the basket of apples she kept close to her side.

“Tell no one, little friend,” Alexandria said with a smile and she reached into the basket and fished out an apple she found hard to imagine the squirrel able to ever carry away.

But she was never surprised when she did what she did.

Alexandria rolled the apple across the grass and she smiled a little more happily as it came to rest in front of the squirrel. Its nose twitched and she watched as the little creature sniffed once, twice, perhaps three, four even five times before it seemed satisfied that she had delivered it an acceptable bounty.

And so Alexandria found herself waving goodbye to the little creature with a simple lifting of her hand as it turned and began to roll the apple away to its keep.

She peered up at the sky then, in part to marvel at the clear of the day, in part because she was worried the birds overhead would see the squirrel, and in part to gauge how much time she had left. She checked her basket, too, its contents almost to the brim and she thought it enough for the day, perhaps because she decided it was enough, and perhaps because she knew she had others things that needed tending.

And so Alexandria rose to her feet, basket full of apples cradled against her chest as she began the long walk through the apple trees and back to her home.

* * *

The sounds of wood being chopped filled the air and signalled to Alexandria that she was close the edges of the apple trees. She began to hear the sounds of farm animals moving about, of chickens clucking and of the skitter scatter of hoof and paw running about. Another low thunk of wood being split broke the air and she hefted the basket of apples more tightly to her chest as she broke through the last of the apple trees.

Before Alexandria sprawled a small homestead. A main building that she had called home stood erected in the centre of a large clearing. It had windowed walls, a slatted wood roof and a dusty brown paint that had been beaten to the elements over generations. Pens large and small dotted around the building, each one home to a handful of animals each. Brutus the wolf dog lounged under a nearby tree, his tongue lolling out to the side as he tried to escape the heat of the day.

Another thunk echoed out around Alexandria and she turned to find a large statured man of dark complexion standing in the sun, shirtless and bald head gleaming in the sun with sweat clinging to rippling muscle in the middle of readying an axe for the next swing down onto the wood before him.

“Agamemnon is inside,” he said, his voice a deep gravel that was kind and soothingly rich.

“Has he eaten?” Alexandria asked as she came to stop beside Eamon as he swung the axe.

“No,” Eamon said with a shake of his head. “He refused again,” and she saw him scowl at the wood that had been split just slightly off centre.

“How hard did you try?” and though Alexandria tried not to let accusation or annoyance fill her tone she knew herself partly unsuccessful as Eamon narrowed his gaze at her as he kicked away the split wood.

“Hard enough to know when to stop,” Eamon said as he reached for another log. “I left food by his bed,” he swung, the thunk loud enough to startle a chicken that had wandered a little closer.

“What did you offer him?” Alexandria said as she placed the basket down on the ground by her feet.

“Soup,” Eamon answered. “Meat and roasted vegetable. I even offered to dip the bread for him.”

She sighed in response, perhaps partly because she wasn’t so sure what to do, and in part because she knew she would say something she would regret if she said anything in reply. She even knew Eamon recognised the sigh for what it was for he waved her off with a grunted curse as he swung his axe down at another log.

“You try,” he said as he kicked away the split wood. “Perhaps the old fool will take more kindly to you.”

“Will you wash these apples?” Alexandria asked as she nudged the basket with her foot.

Eamon eyed them for a long moment before turning to the pile of wood he still needed to split.

“Only if you cook for the night,” he said simply as he prepared the axe for another swing.

“Ok,” she said as she picked up the basket of apples and settled it onto her hip as she began moving towards the main building she called home. “They will be on the kitchen table,” she said over her shoulder.

* * *

The home Alexandria shared with Eamon and Agamemnon was large enough for the three of them. It had its own spaces for them all to seek quiet from each other and space large enough for them all should they feel the need or desire to share in each other’s company. A large living space dominated the interior with a table set in its centre. A fire place currently unused for the summer was recessed in the wall and a kitchen lined the far wall. Windows dotted the walls, too, each one with wooden shutters that did enough to keep the sun out during the hottest days of the year, and that did enough to hold the warmth within when the lands froze in the winters.

Old weapons, swords, knives, bows and arrows and axes hung upon hooks hammered into the largest of walls. Each weapon told a story and a fable and Alexandria wondered what would happen when the wall was unable to accommodate the new weapons that were to arrive with each passing spirit.

But she shook those thoughts from her mind as she set the basket of apples down onto the kitchen counter and began to wind her way through the large space and between couch, chair, book strewn across floor or odd trinket discarded with a promise of being packed away lost to memory.

A single hallway led off from the main room and deeper into the building. As Alexandria walked down the hallway she passed closed door after closed door, each one hiding away the remnants of a long since gone occupant, or simply awaiting the return of another. She passed Eamon’s door, his opened, and she couldn’t help but to roll her eyes as she saw the bed he left unmade and the broken axe that was left scattered on his floor. She passed her own with a content smile as she peered inside to find the bed still made, the only signs of change since the morning being the candle that had slowly melted down, its scent enough to fill the room, and the slightest of large depressions upon her bedding a clear sign that Brutus had seen fit to find shelter at some points while she had been outside.

But Alexandria came to Agamemnon’s room to find his door ajar, the flickering light of a dancing candle creeping out from behind the door and the sounds of a little too hoarse breathing for her liking the only things amiss.

“Agamemnon?” Alexandria called out quietly as she pressed her ear to the door.

A cough and a curse before a ragged _enter _was heard and so she steeled her mind as she pushed open the door enough to slip inside before she let it close behind her.

A single bed sat backed against a wood slat wall. A bedside table sat beside it with a bowl of soup, a glass of water and a plate of sliced bread. A single window remained open and let a ray of light into the room with a vibrancy and warmth that could at times become grating.

Agamemnon was an old man with a grey beard that was trimmed short enough to make it easy for him to maintain. Despite his age he still had an almost full head of grey hair, though it lacked the volume of a man many decades his younger. His face was weathered, too, it showed signs of war with a sliver of a white scar that stretched down his cheek, his neck and dipped under the collar of his loose fitting shirt.

Even the hands that remained folded in his lap from where he sat up with his back against the bedrest were scarred, his knuckles etched with white lines, some deeper than others, some barely visible.

But despite the violence that adorned his body Alexandria saw kindness in his eyes, she saw mirth and warmth and a little devilish glint that never seemed to fade.

“Eamon says you will not eat,” she said as she came to sit by his knees on the side of the bed.

“Eamon says many things,” Agamemnon said with a dry smile as the thunk of wood being split filtered in from his open window.

“And the things he says are true,” Alexandria countered as she pointed to the bowl of soup that still simmered, though she was sure its temperature was now closer to cool than to hot.

“I am not hungry,” Agamemnon said as he lifted his chin and let the iron in his eyes fill his gaze.

Alexandria sighed as she reached for the bowl and took it in her hands, one hand taking the spoon as she slowly began stirring the soup in an attempt to waft the scents his way.

“You must gain your strength,” she said as she offered the bowl towards him with as much forcefulness as she dared.

Agamemnon shook his head just once before he leant back against the bedrest a little more fully with a groan that seemed just a little more put on than needed.

“I am not hungry,” Agamemnon said and this time his voice seemed more weary and less full of the bravado it had been moments earlier.

“At least drink,” Alexandria pushed as she placed the bowl down and reached for the glass instead.

Agamemnon seemed to think over it, and she watched as his eyes moved from the glass and to her eyes and back. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was, perhaps it was the murkiness in his gaze that had seemingly increased with each passing day, perhaps it was the slightest of tremors she could see in his fingers, or even in the way his skin seemed to fluctuate just a little with each rising of the sun. But whatever it was, whatever ailed the old fool, Alexandria found herself fretting, she found herself uncertain and full of frustrated annoyance.

“Please,” she didn’t mean for her voice to come out as quiet as it did. “At least drink.”

A sad smile began to creep upon Agamemnon’s thin lips then, but the expression seemed to at least reach his eyes as he lifted a hand that seemed far too frail all of a sudden.

Agamemnon’s hand took hold of the glass, it shook almost imperceptibly in his grasp and Alexandria helped him bring it to his lips as he took in a slow and measured sip. But he coughed, he grimaced and he choked before he could even take a second sip.

“Here,” and Alexandria pulled the glass away and held up the corner of a cloth to his chin where water dripped.

Agamemnon seemed part abashed, and part reluctantly thankful for the help before he settled more comfortably into the bed as his eyes closed in a slow blink.

“More?” Alexandria asked only to be met with a subtle shake of his head.

“No,” Agamemnon managed to say, his voice hoarse and broken by a shaky breath. “Thank you, Alexandria.”

Alexandria looked away then, but she didn’t quite know why she did so. A sadness had crept over her before she had even really realised what it was, but it caught her off guard and made her want to crush anything she could reach. It made her want to reach out and shake something until it snapped beneath her frustrations and it made her want to crawl into the darkest corner she could find and hide away until whatever emotions she felt faded into oblivion.

She was surprised to feel Agamemnon’s frail hand close around her wrist and squeeze as tightly as he could muster and as she met his gaze she found him smiling at her with a vibrancy once more.

“I will not have you feeling sorry for yourself,” he said.

She tried to smile but she knew the only thing that must have shown was more grimace than anything.

“I will have you know I once could charm any woman into bed,” Agamemnon said with a glint into his eyes. “Sometimes even more than one.”

That made Alexandria laugh and the sound was as genuine as she could muster given her thoughts.

“You are a dirty man,” she said with a smile as she pat the hand that squeezed her wrist.

“I am an old man,” Agamemnon countered. “A very old man,” and he reached up and brushed her cheek with a tenderness she had come to cherish. “Do not worry for me, Alexandria.”

Alexandria took hold of his hand and brought his knuckles to her lips as she pressed the lightest of kisses to his skin. She tried not to squeeze too hard, if only because the skin she felt seemed so very thin, it seemed so very delicate and fragile within her grasp.

“If I make stewed apples will you eat some?” she asked, and she found herself trying to blink away the wetness that clung to her vision.

Agamemnon smiled as he brushed away a single tear that had escaped past her defences before he nodded with as much eagerness as he seemed to be able to muster.

“Perhaps I will.”

* * *

Alexandria walked into the main room to find a now shirted Eamon at the sink, Brutus by his feet and slices of apples haphazardly strewn across the floor as Brutus lapped them up with as much gusto as a starving warrior.

“Did the old fool agree to eat?” Eamon asked as he looked up at her.

“Yes,” Alexandria said as she moved to stand beside Eamon.

Despite Eamon’s words, she knew he worried just as much for Agamemnon as she did, just in his own way. Eamon had lived with Agamemnon for far longer than she had, and before her it had just been the both of them. Agamemnon had been even more stubborn almost a decade ago when she had first arrived, the only thing to dull the pride being the age that he had until recently refused to accept.

“He does not complain or ask for help as much as he should,” Eamon said, this time his voice a little more quiet as he glanced past her and to the hallway where Agamemnon rested.

“He is prideful,” she said simply as she took one of the freshly washed apples from the pile Eamon had been sorting.

“He is a fool,” Eamon said with a shrug as he passed her a knife.

“He is old,” and she looked up at the taller man to see him smiling despite the sadness that lingered behind his gaze.

“Perhaps we should ask Heda for a healer next messenger visit?” he said, in part rhetorically, in part uncertain question.

“Agamemnon would not stand for it,” she said and she tried not to let the sadness push back the humorous thoughts threatening to surface at the way the elderly man would berate them both should he find out what they spoke of.

“Agamemnon can not stand regardless,” Eamon said with a quiet bark of laughter.

Alexandria couldn’t fight the smile that bubbled to the surface, and though she felt guilty, though she felt at fault, she couldn’t deny the humour in the conversation.

“I am making stewed apples,” she said in way of explanation as she began slicing into the apple. “Will you have some, too?”

Eamon took an exaggerated moment’s consideration of the question only to be met with Alexandria punching him lightly in the shoulder as he winced and staggered backwards with far too much dexterity and spring in his step for his size.

“Brutus will get your stewed apples then,” Alexandria said as she smiled down at the large dog to find him gnawing on half an apple piece as his tail wagged haphazardly upon the floor.

“He will not.”

* * *

Stewed apples with cinnamon sprinkled on top with a single scoop of cream Alexandria had come to recognise as one of Agamemnon’s favourite foods. At first she had been all too happy to indulge his affection for the somewhat unhealthy treat until his age had begun to catch up with him. But even then she couldn’t deny that it still gave her a little comfort knowing that she helped to ease his pains when she could.

And so Alexandria walked down the hallway, two bowls of stewed apples in hand, Eamon having already wolfed his down almost as fast as Brutus had his.

“Agamemnon?” she called out gently as she came to the elderly man’s door.

Alexandria pressed her ear to it to find the only sound to meet her was the shallow breathing and ragged stutter that seemed ever constant upon the man’s lips. As she pushed open the door carefully with her foot she found Agamemnon reclining in his bed like he had been when she had left him, his hands folded neatly in his lap and his eyes closed. His chest rose slowly, each inhale and exhale seemingly hard fought and weary.

Alexandria crept into his room with as light a step as she could before she placed both of the bowls down beside the other still untouched foods. Agamemnon stirred at the slightest clinks as she let the bowls settle and as she glanced over at the sleeping man she saw a flash of pain spasm across his face before it settled into a tense easiness that seemed so very strained.

Alexandria moved to the still open window and she shuttered it as quietly as she could, each too loud sound that echoed out around her making her wince. But Agamemnon didn’t seem to notice in his restless slumber and for that she was thankful, if only because she wanted him to rest as much as he could, while he could.

She didn’t mean to do it, either, but Alexandria found herself settling down into the chair that sat beside his bed. A book she had read far too many times in the last few weeks that was opened to a page she had all but memorised lay across the chair’s cushion. Alexandria made herself as comfortable as she could as she began to read, both her legs tucked under herself.

And so, not for the first and hopefully not for the last time, the only sounds to break the quiet around her were the pages she turned, the quiet call of animal outside and the ragged breaths that broke past an old friend’s lips.


	4. Chapter 4

The heat from the water steamed the washroom and fogged the brass mirror that hung upon the wall. Streaks of light entered from the shuttered windows and captured the bravest motes of light as they danced back and forth as if spurred on by an unknown and unseen force.

The bath Alexandria reclined in was grand, its shape formed so smoothly that it at times seemed more cushioned furniture than beaten metal. It’s form captured the heat of the water and seemed to freeze it with all its inherent intensity until it would suddenly seem too cold and too gentle across her skin.

But it had not done so yet and that, Alexandria was immensely thankful for as she reclined against the almost too hot body of the bath as soap muddied water lapped at her chin. Alexandria’s fingers danced just below the surface and she found herself imagining her fingers as brushes that painted memories and thoughts and imaginations through the clouded water.

Moments like this gave her the time to think, time to lose herself and the time to imagine whatever it was she found her mind content to conjure. But the patterns throughout the searing heat that enveloped her did more than just distract the mind. At times when it was cold, at times when she had worked just a little too hard, it seemed to ease the aches of her body, it seemed to soothe the pains that littered her flesh. One of her hands danced against the side of body, it fluttered across the barest hints of her ribs and it perhaps subconsciously brushed against the scar that tore into her stomach before it seemed to settle somewhere deep in the water as it always did.

Alexandria took in a deep breath and she let her lungs fill with the heat of the air before she slipped down beneath the water’s surface. Heat swallowed her whole, it crashed against her face and she let her hands splay out and put pressure against the sides of the bath as she kept herself steady.

Within her mind, when her eyes were closed and all she could feel was the heat of the water and all she could hear was the beating of her heart within her ears, she could truly lose herself to the past, to the years she had spent somewhere so very far away it seemed more dream than memory.

Barely there flashes of things came and went through her mind. Moments of levity were often swallowed, consumed and devoured by pain, by anger, fear and hurt and loss and something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She had regrets, she had wants and hopes and things she wished she could remember, things she wished she could touch and people she wished she could recall. And she had frustrations, she had acceptance and understanding and a myriad of other emotions that she dared not face.

If only because she didn’t know the woman she couldn’t recall.

She could have stayed submerged within the searing heat, she could have stayed cocooned with the warmth and the isolation forever, but Alexandria’s lungs broke before her mind ever did.

She pushed herself up above the heat and she embraced the rush of cold that cascaded against her scorched face as she took in a breath that was as fresh and as vibrant as she had once though the forests to be.

One hand came up and swept back the hair from her eyes, the barest hints of burning etched themselves into her eyes as soap, as scents and ointments dared test her resolve. But she didn’t care too much for pain had become a friend in her isolation.

But she thought she had spent too long within the embrace of the heat and so she steeled herself before she rose with little effort and little noise. Water streamed down her body, it danced against the lines of her flesh and it began to fall back into the bath as she took a gingerly step over the basin’s lip and came to stand atop a fur so warm it must have come from the furthest parts of the northern lands.

Alexandria reached for the towel that was folded atop a chair and she found herself falling into its softness as she slowly began to wipe away the remnants of the heat, all the while her body seemingly unsure whether it was too hot or too cold in the air.

Before too long Alexandria stood bare in the centre of the washroom, a thick fur underfoot and her gaze focused on the shimmering reflection in the mirror before her.

The woman who looked back seemed partly familiar and partly unknown to her. Long brown hair clung to her neck, to her shoulders and cascaded down her back. Eyes that at times seemed emerald and at times seemed hazel looked back at her with an expression she couldn’t place.

So much of her life was a mystery and so much was known. Scars littered her body, some small, some so minuscule that most wouldn’t notice. Others were deeper, richer, vibrant in existence and painful in sight. But the one that always stole her attention, the one she knew to be responsible for the way her life had turned out always stuck out to her. Seeing it seemed even more painful than its presence.

Alexandria had seen enough wounds and scars upon warriors in her youth to recognise the wound to be from Mountain tech. She recognised the severity of the wound, its placement and its brutality for what it must have meant. But even after all the years it seemed strange and so very disconnected to her life before and her life after, the in-between something unknown and too hazy.

She never dared asked Heda, she never dared give voice to her questions. Perhaps in part because she didn’t wish for Heda to relive whatever must have happened, and perhaps in part because her training and every instinct in her body told her not to question what the spirit commanded.

But still, Alexandria’s gaze moved from the scar and to the tattoo that graced her upper arm. And that too was bizarre, if only because she remembered the first two sigils that twisted and etched upon her skin. She remembered sitting in the chair as a youth, she remembered the pain of the needles as they cut into her flesh and left behind the markings whose designs she had slaved over. But the third set, the ones that sat above were a mystery, were something that must have meant something but was now lost with the spirit’s passing.

And perhaps that was sad.

But it was an acceptance for the things that had come and that had passed.

And so Alexandria shook her thoughts and began to dress, her thoughts content to wander to times more concrete within her mind.

* * *

Alexandria was halfway through tying a knot into her hair when she stepped out from the washroom. The door swung shut behind her with a gentle thud and she found herself walking towards the sounds of conversation that drifted through her home’s interior.

She turned a corner of a hallway to find Brutus lounging in a dark shadow, the heat of the day enough to temper whatever energies he had in the cooler months. Alexandria paused by his side and she knelt down as her hands came to card through his thick fur.

Brutus seemed to enjoy the patting for he shifted onto his back, paws flailing in the air as he snuffed and smiled out an awkward sound.

“Good boy, Brutus,” Alexandria crooned ever so quietly as Brutus licked at her palm, her fingers happy to scratch under his mighty chin.

Brutus had become a familial companion over the years. She had been enamoured with the wolf dog when she had first arrived, Brutus at the time nothing more than a pup with too strong an instinct to bite any whose fingers delved too close to him in his excitement. But his age had tempered that habit thankfully for Alexandria was sure should Brutus wish to bite he could and would leave many lacking a finger or five.

“Come, Brutus,” Alexandria said as she rose and beckoned him forward.

And so Brutus snuffed just once in curiosity as he rose with her, his body quick to fall into step with her shadow as they both began to walk towards the voices that could be heard.

It took only a few more short steps before Brutus and Alexandria broke free from the never ending hallway and into the main living space. Eamon sat at the main table, his hands resting atop its surface, one hand clutching at a mug of cool drink. Agamemnon sat in another chair, the old man’s eyes crinkled in laughter with one hand surreptitiously braced against the table’s edge to keep himself upright.

But Alexandria’s gaze fell to the newcomer who sat at the head of the table, whose head of crimson hair shone a brilliance flaming red in the sunlight that streamed in from open windows.

For some reason Alexandria didn’t find it surprising that the Commander had come instead of the messenger, and so she bowed her head and took a seat.

“The border skirmishes have lessened in recent times,” Athena said quietly in way of greeting and explanation.

“That is good, Heda,” Alexandria said before she smiled at Agamemnon who passed her a small beaker of drink with only a partly exaggerated groan of effort.

“I see Brutus is well,” Athena said with a smile as she reached down and began to ruffle the dog’s mighty head from where he had come to lounge at her feet.

“Brutus does not enjoy the summers so often now,” Eamon said as his gaze followed the motion.

“No,” and Athena smiled a little sadly as she let her hands come to clasp together atop the table. “I would expect not,” she said as she looked over to the kitchen bench and at the basket of apples had been recently picked. “Eamon tells me this season’s pickings are extra sweet,” Athena said with a lightness in her voice.

“They are,” Alexandria answered with her own small smile as she glanced over to the basket.

But Alexandria had known the Commander for years now, she had seen the child grow into woman and ruler and Commander and she couldn’t help but to wonder, but to consider and to ponder every little thing she saw.

“I do not wish to be rude, Heda,” Alexandria said ever so softly, and she watched as Eamon’s eyes flashed the barest hints of a warning before he simply resigned himself to the coming exchange. “But why are you here?” she knew Agamemnon looked at her with something not quite amused and not quite reprimanding.

“That is a fair question to ask, Lexa,” Athena said as she turned her attention to her.

The use of _that _name sent a shiver down Alexandria’s spine, if only because she dared not use it, not when she found herself so undeserving of what it had once represented.

But she shook her thoughts and met Athena’s gaze with her own, and perhaps Alexandria expected to see anger, annoyance, frustration or shock at being questioned, but instead of any of the things she expected to see, all she could see was loss, was a deep emotion that she could’t place and a sadness that seemed all too consuming for her to gaze upon for too much longer.

And so Alexandria looked away, she turned her attention to the beaker in her hand and she tried not to let her mind wander to whatever memories Athena must have been reliving.

“I have not visited as much as I should,” Athena said after a moment. “I have not visited as much as I wished to,” she continued and this time Alexandria heard the sadness in Athena’s voice she had seen in her eyes. “I—”

“You do not need to explain to us, Heda,” Eamon said, and though his voice was low, though he didn’t raise his voice, it seemed to cut into the conversation with ease.

“Perhaps not, Eamon,” Athena said as she looked at the man, and though Athena’s lips parted as if she was to say more, no sound followed except for a quietly breath that seemed too unsure for such a presence.

Alexandria’s gaze moved to Agamemnon to find the man looking at Athena with an intensity that seemed far too knowing.

“How are the clans, Heda?” Agamemnon asked, the question blunt, soft and simple.

“Well, Agamemnon,” Athena replied as she looked at the elderly man.

“That is goo—” a cough interrupted him and Alexandria winced as his shoulders hunched and his body seemed to convulse a little too forcefully.

“Here,” Alexandria said quickly as she rose from her chair and pressed the beaker into his hands as she began to lift it to his lips, “drink.”

Another cough wracked the elderly man before he managed to get his breathing under control enough to take a slight sip from the beaker, and Alexandria didn’t miss that the sip he took seemed far too small for it to do much more than wet his lips, and she made a mental note to scold him in private and away from Athena and even Eamon.

“Thank you,” he smiled, his voice hoarse and quiet as he squeezed her hand before she sat back down in her chair.

“I visited Skaikru recently,” Athena said after a moment, and Alexandria turned back to the Commander to find her looking at Agamemnon with something between sadness and longing. “Their tech is already helping the clans in the heat of this summer,” she said with a warm smile. “You would not believe that they have the knowledge to cool entire buildings.”

“Perhaps we should have that tech brought here,” Eamon said as he gestured to Brutus who now lay under the table, the only thing visible of him being his tail that swished back and forth lazily in the heat.

“I will arrange for that to happen,” Athena said, and Alexandria found the Commander’s words to be sincere.

“Thank you, Heda,” Eamon said.

There was a silence then, and Alexandria found herself meeting Athena’s gaze as the Commander seemed to take in everything she must have been seeing. She wondered what she looked like to Athena, she wondered what any of them looked like to her, and part of her wondered if they seemed nothing more than a shadow of their past lives, if they seemed pathetic, broken, discarded weapons or vessels long past being useful. But Alexandria’s thoughts were broken by a single utterance that seemed to convey something that should have meant more than it did to her.

“I spoke with Wanheda,” Athena said, and Alexandria found that the Commander’s gaze drilled into her yet again.

“She is well?” Alexandria asked and she knew she must have once met this woman, this fable and legend and warrior of the sky, if only because she had been Commander when the Mountain fell.

“She is well,” Athena said and Alexandria found herself not liking the way the Commander’s emotions seemed so very open to her in the moment.

“I do not blame her for seeking refuge from all people,” Eamon said and as Alexandria turned to the man she found herself realising that he had not recognised the emotions that were present, or perhaps she had simply been the one to misread whatever it was within the Commander’s gaze.

“No,” Athena said with a sad smile as she turned her attention to Eamon. “I, too, do not blame her.”

Conversation began to flow more freely then but through it all Alexandria found herself unsettled by the way Athena had looked at her with an emotion she slowly began to recognise as love. Or loss. Perhaps regret? Maybe even bittersweet longing.

And perhaps it was simply nothing at all.


	5. Chapter 5

Clarke’s monthly trip to the trading post seemed to sneak up on her faster than it had in pervious years. Even time moved by her more quickly as the years went by. It was a routine that kept her life interesting, it gave her the opportunity to meet with others, to experience new things and to keep tabs on the life she had decided to let slip her mind.

And so wind rustling the trees and birdsong being carried upon the air echoed out around Clarke. River’s muscles rippled and shimmered in the early morning light, and Clarke let one of her hands scratch along River’s mighty neck to soothe whatever her friend must be feeling.

There was no danger though, no large predators to fear, no reapers, nor acid fog, Mountain Men or Azgeda assassins. But it was a hard feeling to shake, a hard habit to break when at one time the sounds of a twig snappy could have meant more than the lazy happenings of a wild bird.

A large pack was tied to River’s side. Within it was packed the hides of animals Clarke had hunted, bones and sinew she had fastened into useful trinkets, and any number of pickled foods that would keep for the long journeys many took from clan to clan.

She never knew what she would find, and sometimes she would simply part with her supplies with a receipt and the promise of being able to take whatever she needed come her next visit.

Clarke looked up into the sky as the shadow of a bird passed by. She smiled at the flittering of its wings and she laughed as River snorted, huffed and threw her head ever so slightly as another bird swooped down at her in passing.

“Hush,” Clarke said quietly as she tried to settle River beneath her.

But River seemed to settle on her own as she continued to wend her way through the forests at whatever lazy pace met her fancy.

Before too long Clarke began to hear the telltale sounds of people in the distance. At first it was the barely there whisper of word carried on the wind, the barest hints of it being swept past tree and through bush until it only just managed to be heard. The next things she began to hear were the quiet thump of metal against wood, of someone testing weapon, or of chopping wood.

And so, as Clarke rode atop River, and as the forest of dappled light and mighty moss spread out she came upon a thinning of forest, where bush and tree were scattered about, where sunlight could stream down onto the ground without interruption and where the blue of the sky chased away the shadows cast by the canopy overhead.

A large wooden building lay in the centre of the forest clearing. The clearing was covered in small flowers that at night seemed as if they were a reflection of the heavens above. Small saplings stood proudly throughout the clearing, their presence as brave as they were alone. A small stable sat beside the main wood building. Some horses could be seen inside and others were left free to wander around the clearing.

Movement caught Clarke’s gaze and she turned to find a young child standing in front of a straw target, a bow in hand and a scowl upon his face as he looked at where his arrow had landed off-centre. A woman, probably his first stood beside him, her arms crossed and her face tattooed as she seemed to consider something before reaching for another bow that lay at her feet, this one smaller than the one in the child’s hands, but its string thicker.

It wasn’t an uncommon scene before her. Clarke had often seen many warriors testing weapons, trying differences and weights and balances until they found one that best suited their need. It also wasn’t uncommon for her to see young seconds trying, and more often than not, failing to live up to whatever lofty expectations their firsts had.

And so Clarke smiled to herself as she looked past them and to a man, large, broad shouldered and hefting an axe over his shoulder as he prepared to bring it down onto a log in front of him as a woman stood behind, a pile of other gleaming battle axes at her feet.

These trips were the few times Clarke interacted with others. Her once a month journeys always brought with it new experiences and things to see. She hadn’t noticed at first, but after the first few years she had begun to notice that other clans would be at the trading post, the lack of reaper and Mountain and Azgeda troubles opening up trading routes none could have predicted.

Though those thoughts were happy, they always seemed to be tinged with the barest hints of bitter longing if she thought too long, if only because the things Clarke saw had been another’s dream so very long ago. Clarke shook her head for she knew dwelling on the past would do nothing but sour her mood and so she let River find her way through the clearing and to the stables before dismounting.

“I won’t be long,” Clarke whispered to River with a smile as she pressed a kiss to her neck. “I know,” and she laughed as River nudged her as if to shoo her away, River’s attention already turning to a black stallion that seemed to be eyeing her with a little too much curiosity for Clarke’s approval.

And so in one familiar motion Clarke snared her pack from River’s side, hefted it onto her shoulder and she began to walk towards the main entrance to the trading post, her mind already cataloguing the things she would be willing to trade.

The young second must have recognised her for who she was because the next shot Clarke saw from the corner of her eye missed the target and whizzed into the wooden fence set behind it with a loud thud.

Clarke smiled at the child, she ignored the pang of regret that darkened her memories and she nodded enough that the boy saw before she turned her attention forward. But still, from the corner of her eye she saw his second slap him across the back of the head and push him forward to fetch the arrow.

Clarke pushed open the main door and was greeted by a familiar sight. The interior of the trading post was grand. Aisles of shelves spread out before her, each one stocked with all sorts of supplies any would need. Some aisles were filled with jars of pickled fruits and vegetables and meats. Some full of furs, clothing and fabrics. Other aisles held supplies, weapons, armour, anything one would need on their travels. Even playthings and trinkets for children, or to decorate and to keep company could be seen.

A handful of people moved about, two young warriors from Glowing Forest, perhaps scouts from their dark clothing, perused an aisle full of arrows forged with expert attention to detail; a man, old but with a keen glint to his eye sorted through jars of pickled foods in search of something and a young family sorted through furs for their daughter who seemed no older than five.

Clarke caught the attention of the young teen at the trading post counter, one hand splayed out across a large ledger, the other with quill in hand.

“Petra,” Clarke said as she made her way through the aisles before she came to stand in front of the girl, cheeks round and eyes eager. “Where’s your dad?” Clarke let her bag settle on the countertop as she looked around for Petra’s father somewhere in the organised chaos of the trading post.

“Father is at the Mountain today,” Petra said with a wide smile. “He left me in charge,” and she seemed to inflate with pride at the responsibility.

“I see,” Clarke said with her own slight smile, the girl’s infectious eagerness to please always quick to rub off on her. “Been busy today?”

“Yes, Wanheda,” Petra said as she finished scribbling a line into the ledger. “Takahepa,” she called out and one of the Glowing Forest scouts turned at his name being called. “You can have your quiver of arrows. I will send your receipt to Tross Village by messenger.”

Clarke smiled as she watched the man’s face split into a smile before he clapped his friend on the shoulder. 

“I told you Petra would see reason,” he said as he quickly shrugged off the quiver strapped to his back and began stuffing arrows into it, the ones he and his friend had clearly been eyeing already pre-selected.

“Payment is due before this time next month,” Petra called out to him, and Clarke liked the way the girl’s voice hardened, the tone so very similar to the girl’s own father who would scold too eager a weary traveller. “With interest.”

“Yes, Heda,” Takahepa said with a cheeky sarcasm as he waved at her as he and his friend began to move for the exit.

“You’re a natural,” Clarke said as she turned back to Petra.

“Father says I must be stern,” and Petra scrunched her face into an exaggerated scowl that was as adorable as it was effective.

Clarke laughed as she opened her pack and began pulling out the jars of pickled foods she had gathered, each one labelled and preselected for trading. Petra began rifling back through the ledger laid across the countertop, tongue just barely poking out between pursed lips as she began searching for Clarke’s last visit.

Clarke was happy to let the silence linger as she watched the youth. It hadn’t been so obvious, perhaps even now it wasn’t so seen, but Clarke was sure she had begun seeing more and more children throughout the forests. Years earlier the only children to be seen would be those selected as seconds. But now, after the Mountain’s fall and after the coalition settled she had begun to see more children walking about.

The family in the corner of the trading post was prime example of that, and as Clarke turned and looked at them she found herself smiling at the image they painted. They seemed happy, content, perhaps never carefree for both parents were armed and Clarke knew them each perfectly capable of killing. But at least they felt comfortable enough taking their child out into the lands.

Even Petra’s existence was something Clarke thought beautiful. It wasn’t that children had never been given the responsibility, they had. But it had always been after disaster, where parent or first had been killed by enemy clan or roaming reaper, or taken by Mountain Men and bled. But now it was different. Petra was given responsibility to look after her families trading post simply because her father was making a trip to the Mountain.

And that, Clarke thought, was beautiful. She thought it worth the pain, the death, the guilt and the years it had taken her to come to terms with the things that had happened.

And so Clarke smiled, she let her contentedness fill her heart and she turned back to Petra to find her looking at her expectantly.

“Sorry,” Clarke said as she tucked an errant braid behind her ear.

“I will gather your things, Wanheda,” Petra said as she began to move out from behind the counter.

“I’ll help,” and Clarke fell into step beside Petra as they began walking down the aisles, one of Petra’s hands holding a piece of paper with supplies written on it, the other quick to pass a basket into Clarke’s arms.

“Did you hear?” Petra asked as she paused, looked up at a high shelf before she stepped on a lower one carefully and reached for a jar.

“Did I hear what?” Clarke said as she reached one hand out to steady the girl as she clambered down, the other holding out the basket for Petra to drop the jar into.

“Heda has returned,” and Petra smiled a thanks as she began moving again. “They say her skirmishes with the bandits was full of many great feats,” awe filled Petra’s tone with each passing word.

“I did hear,” Clarke said. She wouldn’t mention their shared past and their experiences.

“Have you met with her yet?” Petra asked as she turned for a moment to look up at Clarke. “I have never spoken to her, but I hear she is kind. Is she?”

“I’ve met her,” Clarke said and she didn’t mind Petra’s questions, she knew them borne from wonder and youthful curiosity.

“I have only seen her once,” Petra continued with excitement. “From just before she left for the skirmishes.”

“In Polis?” Clarke asked, and she remembered the convoy of warriors that had filed out, she remembered the people of the city gathering in the streets to wave goodbye and to cheers. And she remembered the fear that had spiked in her heart because she had, for some reason, hoped Athena would return safe. If only because she thought Athena the last thing to remain of Lexa.

“Yes,” Petra said as she dropped another item into the basket. “We made the trip to Polis to see her,” Petra continued. “Father says we might not see another war for a very long time, he says that it was important for me to see the warriors. To understand.”

“Yes,” Clarke said with a saddening smile as she tried to look away from Petra as memories began to take hold.

But Petra didn’t seem to notice, and perhaps that was what Clarke needed.

“Father says I saw Heda Lexa, too,” Petra continued. “When I was a newborn. That I had been taken to Polis because I was ill and we saw her march out to face Azgeda before the Coalition,” and Petra smiled as she picked up one fur, eyed it carefully before putting it down and choosing another— “Father says you must get best quality,” she said in way of explanation at Clarke’s raised eyebrows.

“I see,” and Clarke wouldn’t say anything, if only because she knew it useless.

“I wish I saw the warriors attacking the Mountain,” Petra said at last. “I hear stories,” and she lowered her voice. “Grand stories,” and Clarke knew Petra remembered the stories she had told the girl herself over the years.

“Some might be exaggerated,” Clarke said with a laugh.

“Nonsense, Wanheda,” Petra tutted. “You would not lie.”

“Maybe I would,” Clarke challenged.

“No,” Petra said as she shook her head. “How many Hedas have you seen?” Petra asked then, and Clarke liked the way the girl’s eyes squinted as she tried to calculate the years in her mind.

“Only two,” Clarke said and she fought back the barest hints of sadness creeping into the corners of her eyes. “Just Lexa and Athena.”

Petra sighed, and this time it seemed a little less full of energetic life.

“I would have liked to have met Heda Lexa,” Petra said sadly. “Father says she united all clans. He says she fought when others couldn’t, and she united when others wouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” and Clarke reached out and let her fingers brush against a well embroidered tapestry that showed Polis tower with its flaming point. And Clarke thought she would always cherish the things Lexa’s rule had accomplished, the peace she had forged and died for. And Clarke knew she would always miss her. Until the very end. And so, as Clarke looked upon Petra in all her youthful innocence, Clarke found herself smiling, the expression tinged with sadness, with pride. And with a long held love. “Lexa was special.”

* * *

Brutus lay beside Alexandria’s legs, the mighty dog’s tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he somehow avoiding biting through it all the while chewing on a bone. Alexandria sat on the cool floor of her room beneath an open window. Wind barely felt was a welcomed relief from the rising temperature and she wondered how Brutus managed to survive during the summer heats. But perhaps Brutus didn’t mind, if only because he seemed all too happy to lounge around in the shade and do nothing during the hottest parts of the day.

The quiet sounds of a weapon being sharpened continued to ring out through her home, Eamon’s usual cleaning ritual a familiar and comforting sound to her ears. Despite the familiarity of her day, she found her thoughts unable to settle on the present for her mind seemed fit to turn back the few days it had been since Heda had arrived.

It wasn’t that Athena never visited, it wasn’t that she never stayed for a couple days. But something in the way she had looked at her had unsettled her, it had made her think there was more to the visit but she couldn’t quite figure it out.

She wouldn’t say anything to Eamon, he’d simply scoff. She wouldn’t worry Agamemnon with her worries either, he had more important things to focus on. But still, Alexandria couldn’t push aside the memory of the way Athena had looked at her with some emotion she couldn’t quite discern.

“What do you think, Brutus?” Alexandria spoke quietly, her hand happy to scratch along his large snout.

Brutus looked up at her, and not for the first time she knew he understood more than most would realise. His head tilted to the side, it seemed to consider.

Maybe Alexandria was overthinking things though. Maybe it was just the fact that Athena had called her a name she thought herself undeserving of, and maybe it was the fact that she spoke of Wanheda, a woman who by all accounts she must have met, must have fought battles against and with and survived through the most volatile of times. But still, as Alexandria remembered, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more.

It had been so long since her separation from the flame that old questions didn’t burn as brightly within her mind as they once did. But even then her duty to leave her past to the past had outweighed any sense of longing. She remembered the days, the weeks and even months spent in meditation to prepare her mind, to accept the possibility of an early death and the chance of a forceful removal of the flame. It was something every Commander had to be prepared for. And it was their duty to step aside if they were no longer able to command, if they were so gravely wounded that they would be incapable of carrying out their duties.

Of course Lexa had had questions. But that curiosity was tempered by her duty to live a life of solitude hidden away from most.

And yet, despite her training, despite her acceptance, when she had first woken in an unfamiliar room, when she had no memory of how she had got there and when the first face she had seen was a commander’s face who all had thought perished years ago, she realised she had failed. She realised she had all but died.

And that had almost broken her.

But she survived. Just as she had survived her injury.

Brutus laid a paw across her thigh, the weight of it heavy enough to break her from whatever turmoil he must have sensed.

“I am ok,” Alexandria said quietly as she reached out and scratched under his chin. “Thank you, Brutus,” and she smiled as he seemed to look at her with an affection and a love she thought so very pure. “Perhaps I will take you to visit Azgeda,” she said quietly as she felt the heat of the day prickle at her skin. “You would enjoy the cold, I think.”

* * *

The late afternoon sun sat a little lower in the sky as Alexandria walked her way back to her home, a basket of apples under one arm, a hand casually flipping a knife in the other. The sounds of Eamon chasing after Brutus could be heard over the rustle of the wind and Alexandria fought the smile at the corners of her lips. She knew Brutus to be prone to stealing one or ten of Eamon’s weapons, tools and things he cared for, and she knew Eamon more than capable enough of running after the wolf dog until both of them were exhausted.

Birdsong drifted over the wind and as Alexandria looked up into the sky she marvelled at the way they seemed to float without moving their wings. To her they seemed unburdened by the earth. They seemed so very carefree and unshackled to the worldly worries that had plagued her mind. She wondered what it would be like, she wondered what it must feel like to have the wind take her higher and higher into the skies until the only thing that surrounded her was an emptiness and a calm that held no reproach, no longing, no loss and no sense of uncertainties.

But Alexandria shook her head and tried to rid those thoughts and tried not to focus on Athena’s presence somewhere nearby. She didn’t quite blame Athena for her frustrations, but still, those kinds of thoughts hadn’t plagued her mind in years. They hadn’t cast doubt in her mind and they hadn’t made her wonder for even a split second. But now she did. If only because she couldn’t shake the way Athena had looked at her so very oddly.

Not for the first time Alexandria wandered what Athena saw in her. She needn’t worry what Athena saw in Eamon though. Alexandria herself remembered Eamon’s rule as Heda, she remembered his cunning, his brutality at times and his nihilistic sense of violence when needed. But now Eamon was a tempered soul, someone who seemed to cherish the quiet, and find the warmth and the happiness in life wherever he may look. And it was an odd separation of personalities, it was an odd contrast between her memories and what she now saw.

Alexandria wondered if she had been like that. She wondered if she had ruled with an iron fist or had ruled with kindness. She hoped she knew. Perhaps she could piece together how, if only because the coalition had formed some how.

And yet she felt none of that her doing. If only because she thought herself so very different now. She remembered not so many things. She remembered no bloodshed, no violence, no subterfuge and backstabbing and sleepless nights.

Perhaps that was for the best though.

Alexandria paused by a large tree, she leant her shoulder against its weathered bark and she took the quiet moments she had to compose herself and to kill her thoughts before they could consume her any further.

Alexandria didn’t remember what it was like to rule as Heda. She didn’t remember what it was like to form the Coalition, to war against Skaikru and to meet the Mountain in battle.

But she remembered her duty. And her duty was to her people, to her role — or lack thereof — and so she took in one last deep breath.

And with that she pushed off from the tree and left her thoughts behind as she began wending her way back through the apple trees.

* * *

The sun was beginning to settle upon the horizon by the time Alexandria broke past the threshold of her home. Nighttime cool began to settle over the lands and she found herself shrugging on a shawl as she set down the basket of apples in the kitchen.

Eamon must have still been outside hunting for Brutus for Alexandria found her home empty of Eamon’s usual presence. But as Alexandria began to move further and further into her home she found a shadow standing by a window. Athena stood at a lone window, her back to Alexandria and her gaze turned outwards.

“I leave soon,” Athena said quietly as she turned from the window and faced her.

“It is getting late,” Alexandria said quietly as she came to stop in the centre of the living space, an awkward distance trapped between both women. “You can stay for the night if it is easier,” Alexandria thought she knew the answer already, but she thought it polite to ask.

“No,” and Athena turned back to look out the window for another long moment before she took a step away and closer to her. “My presence for these few days has intruded long enough, Lexa,” she flinched at her old name being spoken.

Athena paused then, her lips parted in thought and Alexandria took the time to take in the woman who stood in front of her. Athena was only seven years younger than her, but there was a weight upon her shoulders and a depth to her eyes that she could see. Alexandria had seen it in all Commanders and she was sure that had once been present in her, too. But still, there was that same difference in the way Athena looked at her, there was that same intensity that was barely kept at bay within her green eyes.

“Agamemnon is ill,” Athena said eventually, and it came out with such finality that Alexandria couldn’t help but to close her eyes and try not to let her sadness become visible.

“Yes,” she said, and she was happy that her lips didn’t quiver.

But as Alexandria’s eyes opened she found her curiosity slowly returning. She couldn’t help it, not with how intense Athena’s gaze drilled into her. And perhaps despite better judgement, perhaps despite all her years of acceptance, she broke. Didn’t she deserve an answer? But for what, she didn’t know.

“Why, Heda?” Alexandria asked, and she didn’t quite know what she asked for.

“Why?” Athena echoed softly, an eyebrow raised in question.

“Why do you visit?” Alexandria said. “Do you wish to torment yourself with old memories?” and she gestured to the weapons that hung upon the wall. “Do you wish to see how feeble we become?” it didn’t come out full of hatred and scorn, rather it seemed to be tinged with such uncertainty that even Athena didn’t seem to mind the pointed question.

“No, Lexa,” Athena said as she shook her head. “That is not why I visit,” she paused then, perhaps to consider, perhaps to second guess. But then, “sit,” and Athena gestured to a chair. “Please.”

Alexandria sat in the further of the two chairs and she waited for Athena to speak first. But as the silence began to settle over them, and as Athena’s eyes seemed to focus from point to point across her face, Alexandria couldn’t help but to feel like a newly chosen second being judged for something they had no power over.

“You are lucky, Lexa,” Athena said eventually.

Alexandria didn’t respond, she didn’t think she needed to, and she didn’t think Athena expected one.

“Every Commander to hold the flame speaks to me,” Athena said quietly. “In my sleep. When I close my eyes. When I talk to you or to others. When I try to find peace and quiet. They are always there.”

Alexandria didn’t know what she should say. If she remembered perhaps she could give advice. But for now she was impotent.

“I share every memory,” Athena said. “Every love. Every hate. Every loss and every regret,” and Athena seemed to soften for just a moment as she continued looking at her. “Agamemnon’s wisdom guides me in times of uncertainty,” Athena said with a sad smile. “Eamon’s violence guides me when I face enemy on the battlefield,” there was a long pause then, and as Alexandria continued to look Athena in the eyes she saw something she wouldn’t dare accept. “And your love guides me when I am afraid.”

Alexandria looked away. She didn’t like the things Athena said, she didn’t like reading the emotions in Athena’s eyes. She didn’t like thinking of memories she couldn’t remember. She didn’t like all those things. But she wouldn’t voice any of those thoughts. It wasn’t her place to do so. Not anymore.

“I am not that woman anymore,” Alexandria said quietly. “Eamon is not that warrior anymore. Agamemnon is not that leader anymore.”

“You are,” Athena said, and this time her voice seemed full of conviction. “In here,” and she lifted her hand and gestured to the back of her own neck. “In here,” she moved her hand so that it rested atop her heart, her fingers splayed out as if they tried to hold back the very beating under her chest. “And in here,” Athena finished as she let the pads of her fingers brush against her forehead. “You will always be with me. And I will always be with the next Commander. And the one after and the one after them.”

Alexandria bit her lip as she tried not to let her uncertainties bubble to the surface. But still, she didn’t like the way the conversation was going. If only because she felt like a child trying to play a game where half the rules were kept hidden from her.

And so?

“Why are you here, Athena?”

Athena smiled something between sadness and longing as she rose from her chair in a single elegant motion.

“To do the right thing,” Athena said gently. “But I do not know if I have the strength to do it.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was early morning by the time Clarke arrived at the river. She had set out at the first sign of light with the plan to give herself as much time as possible to catch fresh fish for the night. River lay close to the water’s edge, ear flicking in contentedness at the cool grass she lay atop.

Clarke hadn’t quite needed to hunt or fish. She had enough supplies to last her for weeks if need be, but today was special, no matter how much she tried not to think of it. A week had passed since Athena had visited. It was that simple. Clarke told herself that preparing a meal as well as she could would be the least she could do. Especially for the Commander.

And so Clarke, bow and arrow in hand, found herself standing knee deep in the river, lazy current happy to brush against her legs and her eyes staring at the fish that slowly swam back and forth in front of her. Clarke had time, there was no rush and she was under no hurry to waste the time she had already invested in luring the fish closer.

One in particular had caught her eye and as she continued to watch the pattern it swam she found herself trying to drown out the thoughts that moved within her mind.

Of course Clarke had had meals with Athena before, it had been ten years that they had known each other. It would even be unusual had they never shared a meal. But they had always been in the company of others, they had always been surrounded by guards, by ambassadors, warriors and dignitaries. For some reason this time felt different. Their time together had at first been strained, Clarke had nursed the loss of Lexa and she found accepting Athena’s presence difficult. But in time Clarke had seen Lexa in the younger woman, she had seen the same wisdom taking place, the same caring. And it had been hard.

Perhaps despite the difficulties, Clarke had found Athena’s presence calming in a way, in part because it made her feel like part of Lexa was close, and in part because she believed that as long as Athena still lived, Lexa would still live.

It wasn’t logical, Clarke knew that. She had come to terms with the fact that some questions would never be answered, from the chip that had been Lexa and was now Athena, to the memories Athena must have had of them. But Clarke never asked, never pried, never let herself do something she would regret.

But that had been ten years ago.

Clarke wasn’t the same woman she had been all those years ago. She wasn’t the foolish girl who had fallen to the ground, she wasn’t the stubborn girl who had been forced to become a woman before she thought herself ready.

Perhaps Athena’s campaign to rid the lands of the bandits had sparked something primal within her, perhaps it had made her come to terms with the fact that she could lose Athena and along with her, Lexa.

But perhaps most of all, it was the fact that Clarke admired her, she respected her, thought her brave, determined and intelligent.

And when Clarke really took the time think, she knew what she felt. Athena had become her own woman, she had become her own entity, and Clarke could see that. She really, really, could.

Clarke sighed and forced her thoughts to the present. The fish she eyed continued to swim closer and closer until it was only an arm’s reach from her. She took in a shallow breath, any movement she made sure enough to scare the fish away. Clarke drew back the bowstring, she let the creak of the bow in her hand vibrate through her muscles and she let the barest hints of wind filter through her mind as she focused.

And then she fired.

Her arrow snapped forward in a flash, it struck the water and pierced the calm that had settled around her. Fish below the surface darted left, right, back and forth and ripples broke the river’s calm. And, just as sure as her aim had been, Clarke watched as the fish struggled to swim, arrow pierced through its side. Clarke raced forward, she took leaping steps through the river and she snared the fish, arrow in hand and pulled it up out of the water. Droplets of blood spilled down her arm, splashed into the water below and Clarke grimaced as she hugged the flailing fish to her body as she turned and began to move back to the river’s edge.

River looked up at the commotion and Clarke could’t help but to smile and laugh quietly at the distinct expression of annoyance that flashed across her face at the noise she had made.

“Sorry,” Clarke said as she pulled out her wood chopping board from her pack. “Did I disturb your beauty sleep?”

River snorted before settling back on the grass, eyes closed and nostrils flaring just once in answer.

And with that Clarke set about cleaning the fish, all the while the thought of Athena’s visit never far from her mind.

* * *

Alexandria stood at her kitchen bench, a tea-towel draped over her shoulder and a frown upon her face. The afternoon sun streamed in through an open window and the heat of the day had long since settled upon the lands. Eamon sat at the main dining table, one hand absentmindedly scratching Brutus behind the ears, the other slowly turning the pages of a book.

“This story is very good,” Eamon said after a moment, and Alexandria looked up from the apples she sliced to find Eamon holding up the book, cover facing her and a lazy smile upon his face.

“You should thank Athena next time she visits,” Alexandria said as she turned her attention back to the apples.

“Perhaps I will,” Eamon said.

But the break in silence seemed to bring words that had been warring within her mind out without her realisation. 

“Did Athena speak to you, Eamon?” Alexandria asked, and she made sure her voice was as calm as could be.

“Yes,” Eamon said with a shrug, attention still directed at the pages in front of him.

Alexandria’s lip twitched in annoyance, if only because she knew she wasn’t listened to fully. But she didn’t quite want to give away just how unsettled her conversation with Athena had been. If only because she found it just a little awkward that Athena had said the things she had said.

“Eamon,” Alexandria took a moment to pause, to give the man time to register her voice. But register her voice he did not.

And so Alexandria picked up a slice of apple and tossed it through the air. She watched with a satisfied smirk as it arced, as it spun, and she watched as it hit Eamon square on the forehead with a gentle _plop._

“What?” annoyance coloured his tone as he looked up from the page.

“I asked you a question,” Alexandria said, and she grimaced as Brutus almost took Eamon’s fingers as he tried to grab at the piece of apple that lay nearby.

Eamon didn’t seem to notice the near loss of digit though for he sighed, closed the book and scratched Brutus under the chin before turning to face her with his own frown.

“What was your question?” he asked, and despite the hints of annoyance that coloured his tone Alexandria could see that he sensed her unease.

“I—” but she didn’t quite know how to say the things she wanted to say, in part because she didn’t want to seem a fool, and in part because she knew to question, to delve into the past and to seek out the unknown was more than frowned upon. “Did Athena speak with you?”

“About what?” Eamon asked.

Alexandria bit her lip as she took a moment to consider how best to say what she wanted to say.

“Did she seem distracted to you?”

Eamon took a second’s pause before shrugging.

“Perhaps,” he said. “She is the Commander,” he continued with a sigh. “She has returned from a campaign dealing with bandits. I would be surprised if she was not distracted.”

Alexandria looked away at that, uncertain and unsure of how best to continue the conversation. Part of her didn’t even want to continue to pick at the thread she had found; part of her wanted to do just that. To unravel the uncertainties, to take a closer look at the things that were left unsaid and forgotten.

But Alexandria startled as she felt a large hand settle over her own and as she looked up she found Eamon standing beside her, frown in place and understanding in his eyes.

“You have questions,” Eamon said and it came out as a simple recognition of the thoughts Alexandria dared not voice.

Alexandria closed her eyes and looked away. In part she felt a fool to so suddenly be filled with uncertainties after so many years of having accepted how her life had played out. And yet, the more she thought over what Athena had said and the more she thought over the way Athena had looked at her, the more unsettled she became.

“I am a fool,” Alexandria said eventually as she opened her eyes and looked at Eamon.

“No,” he said with a sad smile. “Not a fool,” and he squeezed her hand.

“You do not even know what unsettles me,” Alexandria said with a quietness that she didn’t mean to voice.

“I do not need to know,” Eamon answered with a shrug.

Eamon fell silent then, and as Alexandria looked up at the man, she saw his eyes moving between hers, she found him trying to discern, to understand, perhaps to put thought into words before speaking.

“I—”

“You—”

Alexandria looked away and bit her lip as they both made to speak at the same time. “Speak,” she said.

“I have lived here longer than the time I served as Natblida and Heda,” he said. “Even I have moments where I wonder,” and he gestured to the weapons on the far wall. “Even I have moments where I am unsure or confused,” Eamon smiled sadly as a memory seemed to take hold. “You think of the people you have left behind,” Eamon said eventually. “I think of them, too,” and he shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder if they still live, sometimes I wonder if they passed sometime during my rule as Heda,” and this time the gravel in Eamon’s voice seemed tinged with sadness and loss rather than the ease she so often heard.

And Alexandria found herself thinking of names she hadn’t let herself think of in years. It had been so long that it was almost difficult to recall Anya’s face. What saddened her the most was that she didn’t know what Anya had looked like the day she died. The last thing she remembered of Anya was at the very beginning of her conclave. And despite her role as first Anya had been a youth, hardly old enough to be a woman in her own right, who had taught her all she had known, who had mentored her, and had seemed at the time to be full of wisdom and knowledge. But now, as Alexandria looked back, she supposed Anya had been just as lost as she was, she supposed Anya had simply done what she thought was best. There were years, lifetimes, moments shared and cherished that had faded to the past, never to be relived, never to be recalled. At least not by her.

“I long to remember my mentors,” Alexandria said quietly, and she didn’t mean for her voice to seem to hopeless.

“As do I,” Eamon said, and his voice carried no shame or judgement.

Alexandria longed to remember Gustus, a man who had protected her, who had guided her, who had been her shadow just as much as Anya had been her guiding light. She didn’t know how he died, she didn’t know how Anya died. All she knew was that they gave their lives for her, for it was their duty. And that hurt.

She thought the least she could do was to remember. But she couldn’t, and she had accepted that long ago. And yet? Perhaps not remembering wasn’t so bad, if only because Athena must remember. The saddest thing of all though? Alexandria didn’t remember what it felt like to lose Costia.

It didn’t surprise Alexandria to find that a tear fell down her cheek. But it did surprise her when she felt Eamon’s arms wrap around her as he pulled her into a tight embrace. Alexandria melted into the embrace, if only because she didn’t know what else to do. Part of her didn’t want Eamon to see her like this, not so suddenly and not after so many years. She thought part of herself needed it though. Perhaps simply because she felt selfishly alone, perhaps simply because she didn’t know how to deal with the emotions Athena seemed to be bringing forward.

For a moment she could forget everything, for a moment she could live in the present and ignore all the worries that had resurfaced, and for a moment Alexandria thought it nice, comforting and peaceful.

“You and Agamemnon are all the family I have left,” Alexandria whispered quietly, cheek pressed against Eamon’s chest and voice half muffled.

She felt Eamon pressed his lips to the top of her head gently, the motion soothing.

“There are the servants, too,” he said quietly, and Alexandria couldn’t fight back the quiet bark of laughter that escaped her lips.

“I do not think they would let me cry into them,” and she sniffled and squeezed Eamon just once before letting go and stepping back, his own arms quick to let her make space between them.

Perhaps she should have been embarrassed for making a scene, but as she wiped her face with the back of her hand and blinked away the rest of her tears all she saw was understanding in Eamon’s eyes.

Alexandria felt something nudging her knee and as she looked down she found Brutus trying to squeeze his way between them, his head cocked to the side and tail wagging slowly back and forth.

“Brutus is jealous,” Eamon said and he stepped back enough for the dog to wedge himself between them happily.

“Brutus is too big for his own good,” Alexandria said as she knelt down and took his face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his snout.

Brutus seemed happy at the attention for he reached forward and tried licking her cheek, but she managed to turn, shift her body enough that he missed only to snuff in annoyance and try again even harder.

“Come, Brutus,” Eamon said with a sigh as he reached forward and began pulling him away. “Perhaps we should get you a pup to keep you company,” he said with a smile.

Brutus seemed to understand more than he should for he frowned and a distinct look of disgust flashed across his face.

“He does not like the sound of that,” Alexandria laughed as she stood and wiped her chin on a tea towel.

A cough filtered through the air then and Alexandria winced as she turned to the hallway that led to their bedrooms.

“I will take Brutus,” Eamon said as he began leading Brutus away. “Brutus might do more harm than good.”

“Yes,” she said quietly as she took in a steadying breath and tried to settle her emotions as she filled a glass with water before she began moving to check on Agamemnon.

Another couch rang out as she approached Agamemnon’s door and Alexandria paused long enough to make sure her breathing was in check before she knocked quietly.

“Agamemnon?” she waited a moment for his response, but when none came Alexandria poked her head through the door frown in place.

Agamemnon lay in bed, pillows propping him up and a frown upon his face. His eyes lit up when he noticed her presence though and he waved her forward with a thin hand.

“Come,” he said, voice hoarse. “I did not hear you.”

“Are you ok?” Alexandria asked as she came to sit in the chair by his bed and placed the glass down on the bedside table. She took a moment to gather her thoughts and as she glanced out his open window she saw Brutus bounding across the grass as he followed a stick Eamon must have thrown.

“Yes,” he answered with a dry smile. “Yes, I am quite alright, Alexandria,” and as she turned back to him she was sure he didn’t tell her the truth. But as Agamemnon paused he came to stare at her intensely, and for a moment Alexandria found herself feeling like a newly accepted second under the glare of a far too harsh first. “You have been crying,” Agamemnon said simply.

“No,” she shook her head, perhaps to give credence to her denial and perhaps to give her time to think of an explanation.

“You lie,” Agamemnon chided.

“It was nothing,” she said eventually, but as she looked Agamemnon in the eyes she found him looking at her with a mixture of sadness and worry.

“Life is too short to deny yourself feelings, child,” he said and he reached out and took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “Now,” and he patted her hand. “I am going nowhere—”

Agamemnon began to cough more forcefully then, his face contorted and Lexa winced as a wheezing wet cough spluttered past his lips. She reached out for his bedside table and to the handkerchief.

“Here,” she said as she rose from her chair and pressed the fabric to Agamemnon’s lips.

“Thank you,” he said once his coughing died down.

Alexandria smiled as she took the fabric from his hands and folded it neatly. She wouldn’t mention the speckles of blood she saw, not yet at least.

“Water?” she asked as she reached for the glass.

“No,” Agamemnon said as he shook his head and pursed his lips.

She knew from his expression that arguing with him today would end nowhere and so she settled for sighing and settling back down in her chair, one leg crossed over the other and her mind trying to organise the chaos of her thoughts.

“Where were we?” Agamemnon said eventually and she smiled as she felt him tug on her arm once.

“I believe you were about to take some rest,” Alexandria said with a simple lifting of her chin.

“I may be old, child,” Agamemnon said. “But I am no fool,” and he smiled a watery smile that for just a short moment made him seem much younger than he was. “I will listen if you will talk, Alexandria.”

Maybe it would be good to share things with Agamemnon, maybe it would be good to air her worries, her uncertainties and her fears. But most of all, Alexandria didn’t know how long she had left with Agamemnon, and she wouldn’t dare waste a single moment if she could.

Alexandria smiled, she tried to fight back the hurt in her eyes as she turned to him and took his hand in hers. She thought perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to talk without fear of judgement.

And so Alexandria let herself fall into her thoughts, she let her thoughts become word and she let herself share her pain, if only because didn’t know what else to do. But she was happy she was here, with Agamemnon. She was happy she could hear Eamon’s shouts of laughter and Brutus barking in response. And she was happy to share in those moments with the only family she thought she had left in the world.

* * *

It was late afternoon and Clarke stood in the centre of her small home. The sun had already begun to set over the horizon, the shadows it cast longer than it had been what seemed like just a few moments ago. She turned in a slow circle, mind cataloging everything she saw, critiquing every object she had set about in her home. Candles had been lit, their scents already taking hold of her home’s interior. Things had been put away, and her belongings had been neatened up as much as possible.

Clarke didn’t remember the last time she had tried to make a good impression, perhaps it had been from before she came crashing down to the ground. The apprehension and the excitement felt foreign to her, perhaps in part because she thought herself little exposed to the situation she was soon to be in.

Perhaps it was foolish to be taking things so seriously, perhaps it was foolish to be fretting over how the candles were set about, how her tapestries and paintings hung as straight as possible. But she wanted to make a good impression, she wanted to make sure everything ran as smoothly as possible.

She told herself it was because the Commander deserved the best.

She ignored the real reason.

Clarke had cooked the fish she had caught as expertly as she could, and truth be told, she was proud of herself. It wasn’t often she went out of her way to do something special, and she was sure it couldn’t really compare to the meals of any large village or of Polis, but still, it was something she took pride in accomplishing.

Satisfied, Clarke turned her attention to her small kitchen, to the open fire that housed simmering coals that kept the food warm and to the table she had set. Butterflies seemed to be building in her core with each passing second, and Clarke found herself clasping her hands tightly in front of her as she tried to reign in her emotions.

But the more she tried to do so, the more she began to panic.

Questions and scenarios began turning in her mind. What if Athena only had a moment to spare? What if she had already eaten? What if Clarke had seriously misjudged whatever connection was between them? What if Athena was only being polite? What if Athena didn—

A knock broke her spiralling thoughts and made Clarke jump.

And so Clarke took one last look around her home before taking in a steadying breath and moving to her door.

It was as if time moved in slow motion. Each step Clarke took seemed to take too long and each footstep that echoed out seemed to linger in the air far longer than it should. But she eventually made it to her door, and she was thankful that her hands remained steady as she grasped the doorknob and turned.

The door swung open to reveal a purple sky. Clouds drifted by and the moon already began to take its place in the furthest reaches of the sky. Birdsong filled the air and Clarke thought it so very charming and carefree.

But she didn’t really register all those things for her gaze fell upon the woman who stood before her. Athena stood in the doorway, her hands held behind her back and her shoulders squared. Though her clothes were very much on the practical side, there was a distinct casualness to them that made Clarke’s lips turn into the hints of a smile. If Clarke looked just a little more closely she was sure she could see hints of eye shadow that graced Athena’s face, and she was sure she could even spy the subtle sparkle of makeup that ghosted against her cheeks.

“Hey,” Clarke said, eyes quick to take in the loosely braided locks of hair tucked behind Athena’s ears.

“Clarke,” Athena said, her voice quiet, and perhaps just a little shaky.

“Come in,” Clarke said as she stepped aside and gestured for Athena to enter.

Athena smiled before stepping inside. Clarke closed the door after her, and as she turned she found Athena taking in the room, from the candles that danced their light to the food and the table that had been set.

“This is lovely, Clarke,” Athena said as she turned to face her. “I brought this,” she added quickly as she reached her hand out.

Clarke’s eyes widened when she saw the bottle of honey mead in Athena’s hand, the drink from one of the furthest clans that she had enjoyed years earlier at a meeting with the clans.

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” Clarke said as she reached out and took the bottle.

“I would not forget,” Athena said simply as she turned back to the room’s interior to take it in.

Clarke was thankful that Athena didn’t seem to notice her blush. Part of Clarke wanted to feel guilty at the whole thing, but the other part, the stronger part, the one that had longed for something more overruled her worries and forced them back into the furthest corners of her mind.

And so Clarke took one last steadying breath before she turned back to Athena who now looked at a painting that hung on the far wall.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Clarke said, and she found herself smiling as Athena turned back to her with her own smile firmly in place.

“Yes, Clarke,” Athena said. “I am.”

* * *

Clarke had expected to be nervous given her initial state of apprehension. But as the night progressed and as their meal was shared, she found that both her and Athena seemed to fall into an easy rhythm that was equal parts familiar as it was comforting. Conversation seemed to flow from what Clarke did to keep her busy during her time alone and to what Athena’s role was now becoming given the relative peace that had fallen over the lands.

Any worries Clarke had had were also chased away by the honey mead Athena had brought with her, the taste sweet and fruity, the drink strong and heady enough to kill any darkening thoughts before they had a chance to form.

As the night progressed, and as more of the honey mead was drunk, Clarke found herself seeing a different side of Athena to what she had ever seen before. Of course Clarke had shared quiet moments with Athena in the past, and at times she had seen parts of Lexa reflected in the woman. But perhaps facing enemies in battle, leading warriors in violence had honed Athena into something different, something more sure and present.

And so, it was with that thought that Clarke found herself smiling as Athena described a rambunctious youth in her army that had fallen off his horse in an attempt to impress another.

Athena fell quiet as she brought her cup to her lips, and Clarke found herself looking into Athena’s eyes from where she sat opposite her. The green of Athena’s eyes sparkled in the candlelight. Even her hair, as wild and as crimson as it was seemed to dance, to shimmer with each passing moment and Clarke found herself smiling without thought, without worry or care.

“What?” Athena said, and her lips quirked up ever so slightly at the corners as she sipped her drink before setting the cup down on the table.

“Nothing,” Clarke said, her mind just a little fuzzy, her thoughts a little unfiltered. “I—” she bit her lip, perhaps to stop a poorly worded thought, perhaps to give herself just a little pain to remind herself she was alive. “You sound like peace will last,” Clarke said eventually.

“Yes,” Athena answered with a kind smile. “I believe it will,” and she leant closer from across the small table. “The clans are cared for, bandits do not cause trouble along our borders, even Skaikru tech is making its way far and wide.”

Clarke smiled, the words Athena spoke threatening to bring up old memories.

“I’m proud of you, Athena,” Clarke said and she meant it.

Athena seemed to blush at that, she ducked her chin and she looked away as she bit her lip. And for a moment, for just one indescribable moment Clarke almost leant forward, almost reached out and took her hand.

“I try,” Athena said as she looked away, and Clarke thought she saw Athena trying to put words to the things that must have been raging in her mind. “I try to live up to her memory,” it came as simply as it could, and perhaps time had tempered her pain, perhaps the decade that had passed was enough that she could think of Lexa without her heart aching. And perhaps it was long enough that she should do something more than survive. Isn’t that what she had once wanted? Wasn’t that what Lexa wanted?

“I miss her,” Clarke didn’t mean to blurt it out, but the drink must have crumbled her defences. Athena seemed to grow a little closer then, her hand lingered somewhere atop the table and Clarke fought to keep her own hand in its place. “Do you see her?” Clarke asked, and her voice came out so very quiet.

Athena paused, and for a moment Clarke thought she overstepped some unseen boundary, and then, “yes,” Athena whispered so very quietly, her eyes guarded, her expression somewhere between pained and full of want and longing. “Every time I close my eyes the Commanders speak to me,” Athena said. and as Clarke lost herself in Athena’s words she felt her hand reaching out ever so slowly, in part to steady her own unsteadiness, perhaps to bring whatever connection she felt with Athena closer to home. “Clarke,” Athena whispered her name quietly as her fingers brushed against hers, and Clarke didn’t know what to say, not when Athena said her name in that same way. She didn’t know what to do when Athena’s voice seemed to vibrate into her core and bury itself so very deep into her beating heart. “She is proud of you, Clarke,” Athena said gently.

Clarke looked away then, but she found that her hand remained held in Athena’s, she found that she dared not move it. Part of her hated hearing the things Athena said, part of her wanted to hear more, to know more than she ever could.

“I am proud of you, Clarke.”

Her gaze snapped back to Athena to find her eyes wide and so open to her in that moment. In that moment Clarke decided to throw caution to the wind, she decided to do whatever she had once dared not do, if only because it could have sent her spiralling down a path she could never turn back from.

“Do you have her memories?” Clarke asked, and she didn’t know what she wanted to hear.

“Yes,” Athena said, and it came out a broken whisper.

“Do you feel the things she felt?” Clarke asked, and she found herself hoping and praying for an answer. But she didn’t quite know which one she wanted to hear. 

“I feel everything,” Athena whispered, and she closed her eyes, and Clarke wasn’t surprised to see a single tear escape down her cheek. And it tore at something deep within her core, it made her want to crumble, to shatter, to coalesce into something more and something lost. “Every hate,” Athena whispered. “Every loss. Every regret, every hurt. Every want and need.”

“Every love?” Clarke asked.

“Every love,” Athena affirmed so quietly Clarke thought she imagined it. “Every pleasure and every pain.”

“Do—” Clarke paused, looked away and tried to see an out to the conversation she had thrown herself down. But if she was brutally honest with herself she was committed, she was sure, concrete in her desires in that very moment. And almost nothing could sway her. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“Yes,” Athena answered. “I remember waking—”

“No,” Clarke shook her head and looked back at Athena to see an emotion she knew to be reflected within her own eyes. “Not then.”

Athena’s intake of breath seemed sharp and gentle at the same time, but it was answer enough for Clarke.

“Do you remember the Pauna?” Clarke asked, and Athena answered her with a single nod. “Do you remember turning your back on me at the Mountain?” Clarke’s own voice had grown so quiet that she didn’t know if Athena even heard her anymore.

“It was my greatest regret,” Athena whispered. “Above all other things.”

“We lost so much time,” Clarke said and she tried to fight the tears that began to fill her vision. “We lost months we could have shared together.”

“I know.”

Athena’s words, her acceptance and her understanding gave Clarke more than she ever thought could be given in two simple words. But it was an acknowledgement that things had been felt by her and by Lexa, it was an acknowledgement that things could have been happy, could have been so full of love and life. If only they had turned out just a little different.

“Do you remember the tent?” Clarke asked, but she didn’t need to ask, she didn’t need to know the answer.

“I remember you threatening Ryder,” Athena said quietly, her gaze never wavering. “I remember you demanding Octavia be free from harm,” Athena’s eyes were so full of longing that it made Clarke’s heart bleed more than she thought possible. “I remember you returning, I remember you pushing me back, cornering me, threatening my space.”

“Like this?” Clarke asked as she leant forward slightly, and her voice was so low, so quiet it seemed more breath than sound. “What do you remember next?”

“I remember the fire in your eyes,” Athena answered, her own voice just as quiet. “I remember the uncertainties and fears.”

“What next?” Clarke dared not say more as she found herself leaning forward even further, close enough that she could count the freckles upon Athena’s cheeks, close enough that she would soon lose herself in the green of her eyes.

“I remember this,” Athena whispered as her hand came up and brushed the side of Clarke’s face.

And Clarke leant into the touch, she found herself falling into its warmth and its presence and she didn’t want to lose it, she didn’t want to run away anymore than she had already done in her life.

“Do you remember this?”

Clarke’s eyes remained open long enough that she could see the fear, the apprehension, the longing and the want within the green eyes that stared back at her. And then, as Athena’s breath ghosted against her lips Clarke’s eyes closed.

At first the kiss was timid, it was uncertain and full of pain and longing and hopelessness. Clarke’s lips met little resistance at first, Athena’s hand remained held against the side of her face and as Clarke chased just as much as Athena fled, she found herself wanting more, she found herself needing mor—

But then Athena change, her uncertainties fell away and Clarke tried to suppress a gasp as Athena rushed forward, as her other hand came up and cradled the side of her neck, as its warmth flushed through her body and Clarke needed it. Athena kissed her with violence, with need, with so much longing that Clarke could do nothing but submit completely. She didn’t want anything less, she didn’t need anything more than to know that Athena felt the same.

And so Clarke pressed forward, she ignored a cup that fell to the floor, she ignored the drink that splashed upon the fur carpet and she stood, her lips trapped against Athena’s flesh as Athena found her way to her feet until they came together in a tangle of limbs and want and emotions so deeply trapped Clarke didn’t know how they had survived so long apart.

Clarke felt wetness upon her cheek, and she recognised it as tears, as pain and years of loss, but she knew not whose tears they were. She didn’t care. Athena didn’t care either from the way one of her hands move from the side of her face and to her hip. Her fingers splayed against her flesh and anchored them together as they continued to fight for pleasure and breath and lust.

“Clarke,” Athena gasped into her mouth, her name more felt than heard.

Clarke whimpered as Athena’s lips slipped from hers and attacked her jaw, as they bruised her sensitive skin and began to press deeper and deeper into her neck in search of something more than surface deep.

Clarke didn’t know if she moaned Athena’s name or if she imagined she did. But perhaps it didn’t matter when one of Athena’s hands gripped her closer, pulled them so tightly together that Clarke couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t feel anything but the body against hers. But that wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough that Athena still wore a frustratingly thick shirt.

And so she snarled, she reached up and she tried to find an opening, she tried to find a button, a knot, a string to pull and a collar to open. And Clarke smiled as finger found flesh, as want found purchase and as—

Something changed then.

Clarke didn’t know what it was or why it happened but something seemed to shift and it took her a moment to realise. Athena remained pressed against her, the woman’s face tucked into her neck. But there was a stiffness, a forcefulness and something _wrong._

“Athena?” Clarke asked as she untangled herself from the other woman.

What Clarke saw shocked her, it made her heart freeze and it made her want to scream out into the world. Life was unfair, it was unkind, and for some reason it seemed to taunt her, it seemed to take pleasure in her pain, in her suffering and in her hurt.

“What’s wrong?” Clarke whispered for she didn’t know what else she could say.

Athena’s eyes were shut so tightly that her face seemed to contort, tears streamed down her cheeks and her shoulders shook. Her hands were clenched so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

And then she fell.

Athena fell to her knees and Clarke gasped, she reached out to break her fall but all that happened was that she found herself pulled down with her.

Clarke called Athena’s name again, and this time panic started to set in, this time fear began to prickle at her skin and this time there was uncertainties and confusion.

“I love you,” Athena whispered, her voice broken, her voice shattered and full of truth. “I love you, Clarke,” Athena said as her eyes opened. “I love you with all of my heart.”

Clarke didn’t know what to say, she didn’t how to respond.

“Every day I wake and I tell myself I must not. Every day I force myself to accept my love is not mine to have,” and she shook her head so violently that strands of red hair broke free from their place. “But I love you.”

“Athena,” Clarke whispered, a hand coming to take hold of Athena’s own hand only for her to pull it away violently.

“Lexa loves you,” Athena whispered. “She loves you.”

“I—” Clarke didn’t know what to say.

Athena pressed forward then, her hands came up and cradled Clarke’s face as she pressed their lips together with so much passion, so much longing and want that Clarke couldn’t think, couldn’t understand more than emotion and memory.

And then Athena broke their kiss, and as Clarke’s vision settled on her, she found Athena’s face full of loss, full of hope, of pain and fear and love.

“Please,” Athena whispered. “I love you, Clarke. I share every memory, I share every emotion, every moment we spent together in Polis. I have every regret and every want that was ever ours to have,” by now her voice was a broken mess of breath and tears and emotion, but still Clarke somehow managed to piece together enough to understand.

But then that all changed.

“I love you, Clarke,” Athena begged quietly. “Please remember that.”

“What’s wrong, Athena?” Clarke whispered.

“Lexa is alive.”


	7. Chapter 7

It was late at night and Alexandria sat on the grass under the cover of an apple tree. Birdsong filtered through the air around her. In the distance she could hear the quiet murmur of the few servants who had dedicated their lives to a servitude, to isolation, to caring for her and those like her. At times long ago she had wondered why they would do such a thing, at times long since faded to memory she had considered asking. And yet she never did. She didn’t know why.

The moon sat in the sky and as Alexandria looked up into the heavens above she wondered, she dreamt, pondered and wished for answers that she knew wouldn’t come. Her mind had been unable to calm itself, her thoughts unable to move past Athena’s visit. Too many questions, too many unknowns had been introduced into her life and she detested it. She hated it. She wished they had never returned.

Alexandria had long since put her life’s unknowns behind her. She had accepted things, had moved on, had even embraced and found comfort in the life she now lived. But Athena’s words had done something. They had woken that old friend. But this time, she thought it less friend and more shadow that never seemed kind enough to introduce themselves.

Brutus snuffed quietly from his place by her side. One of his paws lay atop her legs she had stretched out in front of her in the grass. She always enjoyed his company. It was simple, without any more expectation than a scratch or a pat, perhaps a slice of apple or a thrown stick. But never more than that. She appreciated it.

“What do you think, Brutus?” Alexandria asked quietly as she looked down at him to find his dark eyes looking up at her with such curiosity that she knew he must understand more than she could ever imagine.

Brutus yawned widely, his teeth glinted in the subtle moonlight and she couldn’t help but to recoil just a little as saliva dripped from his lips. But all in all, Alexandria didn’t mind. Saliva, sharp teeth and at times a too heavy weight upon her chest were all things she was happy to put up with if it meant Brutus was in her life. Brutus twitched an ear as she began scratching his head softly, the motion perhaps unconscious as she let her thoughts sift through things that had happened.

Alexandria looked up into the sky overhead and she marvelled at the moonlight that dappled through the apple tree’s leaves. It seemed gentle, kind, something almost tangible, something she could reach out and take hold of if she so desired.

For some reason Alexandria couldn’t shake an odd sense of _something _that lingered in the back of her mind. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was, she wasn’t even sure she sensed anything at all. But that couldn’t be. Not when Athena had said words to her that had seemed so sincere, so full of emotion that Alexandria had just known there was something deeper beneath the surface.

And it was simple. So very simple if she let herself remember.

_Love_

That had been what Athena had said. That had been the thing she had whispered out to her with such an intensity it had set Alexandria’s skin on fire. She had expected Agamemnon’s wisdom to guide Athena, she had been a nightblood in training and had learnt stories, fables, lessons about each and every Commander. And so wisdom wasn’t something she had thought unexpected. Neither was Violence. Eamon had been a Commander quick to deal with uprising, quick to meet challenge head on without worry. She remembered studying his tactics, his skirmishes with the Reapers, with the Mountain Men. And yet she couldn’t remember her own reign. But that wasn’t unique to her. None of them remembered their time as Commander. It was something seldom brought up, seldom spoken of. If only because it had been drilled into each and every one of them from the very beginning.

And yet it shook her to her core that her _love, _something that seemed so foreign to her now, had been the thing to guide Athena. It didn’t help that her mind was now unable to focus, unable to ignore the questions she had and the answers beyond her reach.

But Alexandria yawned. Fatigue began to claw at her mind and she knew it foolish to stay out too long, she knew it foolish to waste away in the heat of the night under a barely comfortable tree trunk when a bed she had lived in for a decade was ready and waiting for her.

And so, “come, Brutus,” Alexandria whispered quietly as she stood, as she stretched and as she scratched Brutus atop his head.

And with that Alexandria silenced the questions within her mind as she smiled at the large wolf dog.

She had so many questions. Some, perhaps, she would ask Athena at a later time. But they could wait. If only because she had had a lot of practice waiting in her new life.

* * *

Clarke remembered the moment her heart had stopped. She remembered what it had felt like realising her world would change forever. She remembered being as happy as could be expected on the ground. She remembered thinking that things could be different, that things _would _be different.

She remembered entering Lexa’s quarters, she remembered the beauty of the sunlight as it dappled through the intricate latticework that cast shadows of beautiful ferocity upon every surface it touched. She remembered a gesture held in parting, full of want, of promise, of expectations and hopes.

And Clarke remembered a kiss, something kind, something soft, something that had made her heart flutter and her breath falter.

But she remembered the pain, too, the way it had torn through her so abruptly that it had felt more dream, more nightmare, more hallucination or psychotic break.

And yet Clarke had grown with it, she had dealt with it, learnt to accept her life had taken a path she never would have chosen. She had dealt with ALIE, she had dealt with Roan, with Azgeda, with the Coalition and with Pike.

She had taken each day as they had come, she had lived and done what was expected of her until she had felt happy— No. Not happy. Satisfied? Perhaps not even that. Maybe, just maybe she could think it content. Content that her people had been given the best chance to survive.

Once she had thought had been about more than just surviving. Once she had done nothing but survive. And she had survived so much, so many things, countless days and nights of terror. Countless moments of loss, countless lonely nights where she had hugged herself asleep, where she had tried not to let guilts consume her, pains guide her and angers drive her.

And she had come out stronger, she truly, truly, believed that. She didn’t think anyone could come out the other side of whatever dark tunnel she had travelled without being stronger. She was sure some would have lost themselves in the dark, she was sure some would never embraced it, used it to torment and twist and trap themselves in an endless cycle of dark nothingness. But she had found the metaphorical light.

And so she had thought, she had believed and she had known herself _stronger._

But in that very moment, as Athena whispered words of ruin, Clarke didn’t think she knew anything.

“What?”

A frown found its way upon her forehead, Clarke could feel her muscles tighten, deepen her pains across her face and she didn’t think she heard properly. She _knew _she heard wrong.

Athena refused to look her in the eyes from where she had collapsed to her knees on the ground. Athena refused to make a sound for so long that Clarke thought she had some how retreated into her mind, had come undone with something unknown, something unintelligible and incomprehensible. But Athena took in a breath so quiet, so broken, so full of emotion that it made Clarke’s heart constrict.

Athena’s eyes closed, the motion enough to send a tear down her cheek. Her eyes remained closed for long enough that Clarke almost thought she had retreated somewhere deep into her subconscious. But just before Clarke made to speak Athena’s eyes snapped open.

“I—” Athena’s voice broke quietly, the sound seemingly trapped and unable or unwilling to be let free.

Clarke couldn’t help but to have Athena’s words echo out within her mind. At first, as she continued to look at Athena, she thought that maybe she had misheard, maybe it had all been a trick of the mind. But the longer she stared at Athena, and the longer the silence lasted, the more Clarke knew what Athena had said had truly been said.

_Lexa is alive_

Clarke didn’t know what that meant. Was it her memory that Athena spoke of? Was it her soul in some way? Was her spirit still in the flame? Her thoughts?

“I love you, Clarke,” Athena whispered and that sound brought Clarke’s attention back to the present with such ferocity that it made her heart spasm.

Clarke looked Athena in the eyes and all she saw was devastation. There was an openness, something so bare, so vulnerable in the green of her eyes that Clarke wanted to scream. For the first time in so long Clarke saw Athena as the young woman she truly was, who had been thrust into a position of responsibility without warning, without explanation or preparation.

But that admission of Athena’s made Clarke consider, made her pause, made her try to understand. She had always felt a connection with Athena, she had always known something was there. But she had always assumed, she had always known that it was simply because Athena had had Lexa’s memories. But there had to be more. Especially now.

Athena took in a steadier breath then. It seemed stronger, more certain. Clarke watched as the tears in her eyes fell, as they graced her cheeks and said more than Athena may ever say aloud.

“Lexa is alive,” Athena said again, and this time her voice was calm, it had seemingly forced itself back into unwavering certainty.

And yet, as Clarke looked at Athena, she found the woman looking past her shoulder, her vision focused on something in the distance, focused on something that Clarke knew not there.

“Lexa is alive, Clarke,” Athena whispered as her vision came back to hers.

“Don’t say that,” and Clarke didn’t know why Athena said what she said. She didn’t know what had made Athena break, what had made her want to torment her the way she now did. “Why?” and Clarke found that it was time for her own voice to now break. “Why are you saying these things?”

Athena looked back past Clarke’s shoulder, and this time Clarke knew Athena had retreated back into her mind. She remembered a time so long ago when Lexa had been sitting at the foot of her bed, when she had been meditating, eyes closed with her mind with the Commanders in the flame. And Clarke knew. She knew that was what Athena did now.

“Athena,” Clarke whispered as she reached out and let her hand guide Athena’s face back to face hers fully. “Athena, look at me,” and Clarke fought to keep her breath steady.

Part of her didn’t blame Athena for feeling guilty. She had, in some way, always known Athena would have shared Lexa’s memories. And she had always know that connection she had had with Lexa could grow into something with Athena. Perhaps the skirmishes had made Athena face her mortality in a way she had never been forced to do so before.

Athena’s gaze snapped back to her again and Clarke saw something in her eyes, she saw something in the depths that spoke of knowledge so old, memories so cherished and emotions so deep that she may never understand them.

“I know you’re feeling guilty,” Clarke whispered, and she saw pain flash across Athena’s face. “I know you feel like you’re betraying Lexa’s memory,” and Clarke couldn’t blame Athena. She felt the same, at least partly.

Maybe the honey mead had sullied both their minds. Perhaps it had been far stronger than she had expected. But Clarke could see Athena needed comforting, she could see a guilt so plainly across her face that Clarke didn’t know what else to do but to embrace her.

And so she did.

Clarke cradled Athena’s face in her hands as softly as she dared, she made sure Athena looked her in the eyes and she smiled something sad, something bittersweet, something full of loss that Clarke couldn’t think it really a smile at all.

But Athena shook her head, she closed her eyes once more and her hands came up and pulled Clarke’s hands from her face.

“No, Clarke,” Athena whispered once her eyes opened. “You do not understand,” and Athena squeezed her hands, pulled one to her lips and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “Lexa,” and Athena yet again looked past her shoulder for the briefest of moments before she seemingly forced her gaze back to her. “She is alive.”

It was odd. There wasn’t anything inherently different in what Athena said. But as Clarke looked Athena in the eyes, as she listened to the tone of her voice and as she let the words sink in, she found herself _knowing _somehow, that the meaning was different.

“What do you mean?” maybe it was a stupid question. But Clarke needed an explanation. “What do you mean, Athena?” Clarke found tears beginning to fill her vision. She didn’t know if this was a cruel joke, if she had passed out drunk, if Athena had had a mental breakdown or if something else entirely incomprehensible was happening.

Athena took in a shuddering breath, her lips quivered and Clarke grimaced as Athena’s hands gripped hers even more tightly than before.

“Memories are passed down from Commander to Commander,” Athena said quietly.

Clarke already knew that. She was sure she actually knew more about how the flame worked then perhaps even Athena. In some ways at least. But she found herself staying quiet for she knew Athena had more to say.

“Clarke,” and Athena’s eyes watered as she looked her in the eyes. “It is so hard to ignore the things you and Lexa shared,” and she shook her head as if to clear whatever thoughts must have been filling her mind. “I remember everything, I remember every feeling, every thought.”

Clarke didn’t think she liked hearing the things Athena said. It wasn’t that she hadn’t moved on. Or at least she thought she had for it had been a decade since Lexa’s death. But right then, in that very moment, she found herself remembering more than she had in years.

“When we take the flame," Athena continued. “When we are joined with the spirit of the Commander, our lives are forfeit,” and Athena swallowed heavily. “I am not the Athena who lived before she was given the flame,” there was a pause, perhaps one long enough that Clarke could say something if she wanted. “No nightblood is the same person once they take the flame,” this time Athena’s eyes hardened, this time there was a difference in the way she looked at her. “The Commander’s spirit becomes one with them, their spirit becomes part of the Commander’s spirit.”

Clarke took a long moment to process what Athena had said. Or perhaps it was only seconds. But the time seemed to stand still, it seemed to move too quickly, too slowly, too heavily for her to sift through without feeling confused, without feeling unsure and uncertain.

Clarke didn’t know what Athena meant. Not entirely.

“Are—” Clarke grimaced as she fought to control her breathing. “Are you saying that Lexa wasn’t really Lexa?” she didn’t know what she asked. She didn’t know what she said. “That I never knew Lexa?”

Clarke didn’t know if her heart could break anymore than it had years ago. She didn’t know if her mind could comprehend more than it had already. Clarke didn’t know so many things that it made her want to scream out, to cry, to break every single thing she could get her hands on.

“Are _you _not Athena?” Clarke asked, her voice so small, so uncertain. “Is Athena dead? Is that what you mean?” the questions sounded so strange once Clarke heard herself say them.

Athena shook her head again, but this time Clarke wasn’t sure if it was to refute what she had asked, or to yet again clear her mind from whatever turmoils had clearly come to the forefront of her thoughts. But Athena’s head began to shake back and forth with more and more force until it became haphazard, full of despair and guilt and Clarke couldn’t do anything but lean back, try to put space between them.

“No,” Athena said her voice now cold, her voice now desperate, somewhere between detached and barely hanging on. “No,” Athena’s voice broke and Clarke thought she more read Athena’s lips than heard her speak. “No—”

Clarke reached out, she gripped Athena’s face in her hands and she tried to ease whatever suffering she saw before her.

“Athena,” and Clarke winced as Athena tried to shake her heads free. “Athena look—” Clarke pushed forced enough that she could invade Athena’s space, enough that she could control the frantic jerk of her body. “Look at me, Athena.”

“I—” Athena’s vision seemed unclear, uncertain, and yet again Clarke watched as Athena stared off into the distance for a moment, for barely a second, but enough that she could see it.

But there was a change. It was sudden, it was swift, it was all encompassing and it made Clarke recoil.

She couldn’t explain it. She couldn’t really understand what had happened. But as she looked at Athena’s eyes, she saw them take in _something, _she saw her disappear somewhere so very recessed into her mind that she all but faded from existence. And it happened in barely a second. But then Athena returned. She returned and her gaze snapped back to Clarke’s with a clarity, with a strength and a conviction that seemed so sure, so confident that Clarke, for just a moment, thought that the flame lodged into the base of Athena’s skull must have malfunctioned, that whatever programming had created it had begun to glitch, begun to breakdown after more than a century of constant use—

“Clarke,” Athena whispered and her voice was steady, perhaps just a little breathless from whatever distressed her body had been through.

But there was a difference. There was a curse. There was a prayer, something buried so deep within Clarke that it was ruled by nothing but primal instinct. And it made Clarke’s skin crawl and her blood freeze.

“Lexa?”


	8. Chapter 8

It was so late at night that Alexandria wondered if it was closer to a rising sun than it was to the rising moon. She didn’t know what had drawn her to the countless weapons that hung from the wall. She had tried to understand, she had tried to grasp that shifting reasoning only for it to slip through her mind’s grasp like the errants wisps of smoke that would laze through the air with a gentle breeze.

She wondered why her thoughts so lyrical at such a time. She wondered why she had become so prone to second guessing. She wondered so many things that were so far away that she thought herself never one to grasp, to mould it to her will, to understand and to conquer.

Her gaze came to rest against two swords at the furthest end of the wall. Part of her screamed out not to approach, part of her told her to turn her attention to another weapon, perhaps the battle axe in front of her, the spear to her left, even the small dagger that hung higher up on the wall.

And yet she knew what decision she had made before her feet even began to move.

Alexandria’s bare feet padded their way over the warm wood of the floor. Each step she took was greeted by weathered wooden floorboards, each pace she took was followed by the gentle swishing of the loose clothes she wore. Before she even really understood what she was doing she found herself standing before the last of the weapons.

The two swords were simple in some ways, intricate in others. They were a juxtaposition, a contrast, something dull and something sharp. There were small grooves formed into the handles of each sword. She knew them to be worn through years of use, and she knew them to fit a hand so perfectly that it would feel like a master sword-smith had created them. The hilts were simple, small, elegant enough that each blade could be swung with speed, large enough to provide at least some protection should an enemies blade try to slip past the owners defences. There were other details, too. She couldn’t quite figure out their purpose, their presence upon the weapons perhaps more sentimental than functional.

But Alexandria startled when she sensed a presence, something quiet, something close by that wished not to intrude or to disturb more than it already had. And so she turned. Agamemnon stood beside her quietly, his appearance unexpected, his own gaze settled on a weapon further along the wall neither remembered ever holding.

“I did not mean to startle you,” Agamemnon said quietly, his voice just a little hoarse, his breathing a bit more laboured than it had been only days earlier.

“I did not hear you Agamemnon,” Alexandria said equally as quiet as her old friend.

“You were lost in thought,” and he looked at her for a moment.

Though their eyes met for only a second or two, Alexandria felt a conversation of forgotten memories pass between them. She wondered what could have once been said that was perhaps never to be heard, she wondered what words of wisdom would have once given her frantic mind reprieve from the uncertainties of her life. She wondered more than she ever had.

“I was,” Alexandria said and she turned back to look at the swords she had once held in her hands.

“Do you remember holding them?” Agamemnon asked.

She didn’t. Not quite. She had held a sword similar to them long ago, whose blade had looked like them, whose hilt had been as weathered as the hilts she now looked upon. But she thought that a weapon of a forgotten time.

“No,” Alexandria said. “I do not.”

Agamemnon coughed, the sound deep, ragged, a little too full of pain for Alexandria to ignore.

“Come,” she said as she reached for his elbow, perhaps to help ground him lest he fall. Perhaps to help ground herself lest she forget more than she already had.

A smile crept its way upon the elderly man’s lips and Alexandria found her heart aching more than she wanted it to when she saw the speckles of blood that just barely graced his lips, that he tried to wipe away without her noticing.

“Sit, Agamemnon,” she said as she guided him towards a nearby chair. “I will make you a warm drink.”

He whispered something between thanks and refusal, but Alexandria paid it little notice. She waited only a moment longer, enough that she was sure he wouldn’t try to rise without her aid and then she moved to the kitchen, her mind worried, her heart pained.

Agamemnon was sick, that much was obvious. She didn’t know when she had noticed but she had. At times she would find blood on a handkerchief he had coughed into, at times she noticed him short of breath despite the lack of exercise. She had never been a healer. She had only known enough to stitch a wound or to change a dressing, but she had never thought herself capable of healing the sick, caring for the injured more than to try to stem the bleeding. But she knew enough to know Agamemnon sicker than he would admit.

And that hurt. What little family she had ever had was long gone, perhaps a cousin, an aunt, an uncle could still be alive. But they thought her dead as much as she thought them not for her to have. But she still had Eamon, perhaps the closest thing to a friend, and she still had Agamemnon, perhaps the only thing she could call a father-figure in her life.

He had been there when she had woken, just as much as Eamon had been there. But his wisdom, his age, his words had been what she had looked for in her times of uncertainty. She knew it would end one day, though. And yet she had always hoped it would always be something for tomorrow. Forever.

But she was foolish, she was childish, she needed to accept what was to await her in the future, just as much as she had already accepted what had happened in her past.

And so Alexandria took in a steadying breath and forced the worries from her face as she finished bringing the water to boil before she poured a small cup of tea from places far away.

* * *

Time passed Alexandria by as she sat next to Agamemnon. His breathing had somewhat settled, perhaps due to the how tea, perhaps because he spoke little now that he was preoccupied. Whatever the reason Alexandria was thankful, if only because she thought it couldn’t hurt for him to rest his voice.

She took a moment to look out through a crack in a shuttered window to find that the night was still king, the stars still vibrant and the moon ever present in the sky. A gentle fire crackled in the fireplace, and Alexandria fought the yawn that threatened to escape past her lips.

Agamemnon took in a breath, the sound ragged and she looked up to find his head beginning to droop just a little as fatigue began to claw its way back into his mind. He seemed peaceful in half sleep, whatever aches in his body forgotten for the moment, whatever ailed him pushed away for the time being. She thought she enjoyed looking at him like this, in part because it made her feel normal, it made her feel like this experience she was living was something countless people found themselves in. Perhaps it helped her to forget where she was, it helped her to forget just how isolated they were. Maybe it was simply because it gave her something to do, someone to care for and to distract from her own self doubts.

Agamemnon grunted quietly and she looked over to find his head drooped a little more as sleep took hold. The cup clasped in his hands sat precariously atop his stomach as it rose with each passing breath. Ever quiet and ever gentle lest she disturb the quiet, Alexandria rose from her chair. She winced just a little at the creak and she took the few short steps over to Agamemnon before she reached out and lifted the cup out of his hand.

The ceramic of the cup was still warm to the touch, the tea half drunk with just a few leaves settled at the bottom. She didn’t mind caring for Agamemnon. She didn’t mind looking after him in his old age. She thought that the least she could do. And so Alexandria made her way back to the kitchen as quietly as she could.

It didn’t take her long to clean up, the two cups rinsed and left to drip-dry over night. But as she turned back to look at Agamemnon she found herself thinking he looked cold. Both arms had been pulled around himself in his sleep, the scruff of his beard doing little to keep even his face warm in the gentle of the night.

A sigh came then, and it was subtle, not really even conscious, but Alexandria found herself walking past the sleeping man and down the hallway to his room. She passed door after door, all closed, all ready and waiting should someone else one day find themselves surrounded by ghosts. She paused as she passed Eamon’s door only to smile when she heard the distinct snuffing of Brutus who had clearly seen fit to sleep with Eamon for the night. She didn’t even know how Eamon managed not to overheat with Brutus laying atop him as he had done since he was a pup.

Alexandria shook those thoughts from herm mind as she came to Agamemnon’s room. It only took her a second to duck inside and scoop up a large fur blanket in her arms before she made her way back to the main room and to Agamemnon’s side.

As she wrapped the blanket around him as gently as she could she found her thoughts continuing to think, to ponder, to consider things she had no answers to. She was tired of the unknowns though. She was tired of the questions that had so recently been ravaging her mind and so she made a decision in that moment. As she tucked Agamemnon into the furs more comfortably she decided she would ask. She would ask Athena what she had meant, she would voice all her doubts. She didn’t care that it was against everything she had been taught from first being taken to Polis. She didn’t care that it wasn’t for her to question the Commander. And she didn’t care th—

Agamemnon coughed in his sleep, his face pulled into a grimace and Alexandria almost moved back to his side, she almost reached out in an attempt to ease his pain. But instead she paused, she waited and she felt her heart ache as he seemed to fight his body back under control.

She didn’t think Agamemnon would ever admit to being in pain. She knew he’d cover it as long as he could. She’d probably do the same. But she’d help. And so, as Alexandria took just another moment to worry over Agamemnon she decided that she’d ask Athena if a Skaikru healer could be brought to them, she’d even hide away, not let herself be seen so as to keep secret their existence. But she wouldn’t sit by and watch Agamemnon suffer if she could help it.

* * *

Before too long Alexandria found herself in her bed, her day’s clothes replaced with a looser undergarment that helped ease her mind. It wasn’t that she was surprised that something was frustrating her. That much was obvious. But still, as she continued thinking about the things Athena had said and as she continued reliving the expression on her face, she found herself _knowing _something was missing. It wasn’t so apparent that she could look at whatever spot in her mind’s library that was so ostensibly missing a book or two, but it was that she knew she needed to look, she knew she needed to uncover something that had once existed.

And it was frustrating.

But perhaps it was a problem for another day.

Alexandria yawned, she rolled onto her side, tucked an arm under her pillow and she pulled her knees up a little closer to her body, if only because she thought it nice to at least feel like she had a comforting presence by her side.

And so, as sleep slowly began to take hold of her mind, Alexandria smiled at the thought that maybe Brutus would come keep her company should he grow tired with Eamon sometime in the earliest of the mornings.

* * *

There was so much confusion raging through Clarke’s mind that she didn’t know what to do, or how to process the feeling that had consumed her completely. She didn’t know why she had said that name, she didn’t know why she had felt the need to say that name. But something in Athena’s eyes had been different, something in the way she had looked at her had been different.

Something _was _different.

“Clarke,” Athena said quietly, but it wasn’t Athena. Not quite. Though her voice sounded the same there was a subtle, barely noticeable difference in the way her name was pronounced.

“Lexa?” Clarke didn’t want to hope, she didn’t want be given any false sense of anything.

“I do not have much time, Clarke,” Athena said gently, her hands now coming up to pull her hands from her face slowly.

“Lexa?” Clarke’s mind tried understanding what was happening.

She thought of the flame, of the chip that had housed Lexa’s consciousness, she remembered seeing Lexa in the city of light, she remembered ALIE, Becca, so many things that made no sense to her. And maybe, somehow, some way, Lexa was still alive. Wasn’t that what Athena had been saying? Was Lexa somehow in control of Athena’s body? Was she somehow abl—

“Clarke.”

Her vision snapped back to the woman who was in front of her.

And she broke.

Clarke felt tears beginning to well in her eyes, she rushed forward and she threw her arms around Lexa’s shoulders with as much strength, as much fury and hope, loss and pain as she could muster.

She didn’t mean to sob, she didn’t mean to break down and gaps Lexa’s name over and over and over again. But she did. She did and she didn’t care, she didn’t worry for how it might look or sound or appear to anyone who could be near. There were so many questions Clarke had, so many things she needed answering. But they could wait, they could be pushed back somewhere deep within her for they weren’t important in that moment. She didn't think anything could be more important.

And yet somehow Lexa untangled herself from the mess of limbs and came to rest half an arm’s length away. Far enough that Clarke couldn’t hold her as tightly as she wanted, close enough that Clarke could feel her breath against her face.

“Clarke,” Lexa whispered again, and this time there was pain in her eyes, there was sadness, acceptance and so many other emotions she couldn’t even begin to decipher.

“Lexa—” Clarke swallowed, she choked on a broken sob and she shook her head in an attempt to clear the haze of emotions and honey mead. “How?” Clarke asked. “How is this possible?”

Lexa smiled again, the expression small, but full of emotion.

“My spirit is part of the Commander, Clarke,” Lexa said so quietly that it hurt.

“I—” Clarke choked, “I thought I’d never see you again,” she felt new tears beginning to spring into her eyes as she remembered seeing Lexa charge the army in the city of light.

“Clarke,” and Lexa smiled again, but this time it seemed sadder, it seemed a little less warm. “I promised I would always be with you, Clarke,” and Lexa’s hand reached out, it came to rest against her heart and it felt so warm, so _real._

“How, Lexa?” and Clarke shook her head in disbelief, in raw emotion. “How is this possible?”

Lexa paused for a moment as she seemed to think, to consider, to analyse the question.

“Each Commander’s spirit is in the flame,” Lexa said after a moment. “We speak to the Commander, guide them, give counsel, ask questions or even answer them if they are needed.”

Clarke smiled something so full of emotion that it made her cheeks hurt.

“But we do not control the Commander,” Lexa said. “Our duty is to guide,” and Lexa grimaced at something she had said.

“How is this possible?” Clarke whispered as she gestured between them. “How are you here?”

Lexa took in a breath that seemed as equally shaky as it was steady.

“Athena asked for help,” Lexa said eventually.

“I—” again Clarke found herself unsure of what to say. “What help?”

Lexa looked away again, and this time there was an uncertainty, a fruitlessness, something uncomfortable in the way she looked off into the distance.

“Hey,” Clarke hissed, she reached out and squeezed Lexa’s arm lest she fade away just as Athena had seemingly done. “Don’t go. Please.”

“No,” and Lexa shook her head. “I was only thinking, Clarke,” and Lexa looked back at her with that same sadness again. There was a silence then, it lingered, it sat in the space between them and Clarke found herself taking in every little twitch of Lexa’s face, every single movement, expression, muscle spasm and breath in the hopes of memorising them, searing them back into her mind with renewed intensi— “I am so proud of what you have accomplished, Clarke.”

Clarke reached up and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, her tears so frustratingly getting in the way of what was in front of her.

“I tried,” Clarke choked out. “I tried so hard to live up to the legacy you left behind, Lexa,” and she shook her head yet again to try to clear her mind. “I fought for our people, I fought for peace. For everything we wanted,” and she felt new tears forming.

“I know, Clarke.”

That was all Lexa needed to say for Clarke to almost break apart yet again. But somehow she fought to keep herself together.

“How long can you stay?” Clarke wouldn’t dare think that Lexa could stay forever. Part of her thought she might even have drunk so much that everything that was currently happening was merely a drunken dream.

“Not long,” and Lexa smiled sadly. “It is not good for the body to have a second spirit in control,” Lexa said.

“I understand,” and Clarke didn’t know if she actually did. But it was a better explanation than anything she could have come up with. And if Lexa could only stay for another moment, another second, she wouldn’t waste it questioning her.

Lexa took in another steadying breath and this time it seemed to be full of composure, full of something she didn’t understand.

And then she spoke.

“My full name is Alexandria,” Lexa said, voice somewhere between breath and whisper.

“Alexandria,” Clarke echoed, her voice wet, her vision hazed, yet she found herself smiling at the name.

Lexa took hold of her hands then, she brought them up to her lips and placed a kiss atop her fingers with a delicateness that Clarke had never seen in her before.

“I can only exist in here, Clarke,” Lexa continued, one of her hands coming to rest against the back of her neck.

“I know,” and Clarke thought Lexa told her to make sure she didn’t grow attached in some way, to make sure she didn’t forget, didn’t lose sight of what was happening. “I understand,” she whispered. “I understand you can’t be anywhere else.”

But then Lexa continued.

“No, Clarke,” Lexa shook her head. “_Alexandria,_” there was a pause, an emphasis, a revelation to be heard. “_She _is alive, Clarke.”

It shouldn’t have been difficult for her to understand. The words Lexa said were so simple, were so easy to comprehend. But for some reason, the more Clarke replayed them in her mind, the more she found herself unable to make sense of them.

“I—” again Clarke found herself at a loss for words. “I don’t understand, Lexa.”

“When Commanders are injured,” Lexa said. “When they are wounded so severely that they will never again have the confidence of the clans the flame is removed forcibly,” and she looked away. “It rarely happens,” and it was Lexa’s turn to swallow painfully. “Most Commanders die outright,” and Clarke flinched at the words Lexa said for she remembered the blood and the pain. “But if they are unlucky enough to survive their wounds the flame is taken from them,” Lexa looked her in the eyes so intensely Clarke almost looked away. “The clans must never know this. They would revolt, they would call for all past Commanders to die,” Lexa paused again as if to give Clarke time to digest the things she said.

“What—” Clarke paused, she tried to piece together the words, the thoughts, the ideas and the things Lexa said. “What are you saying, Lexa?”

Lexa smiled a sad expression that lifted the corner of her lips just barely.

“Alexandria is alive, Clarke,” she said. “I am not her, and she is not me,” and so much hope, so much loss, so much emotion could be read in Lexa’s eyes that Clarke could have drowned in it. “But Alexandria survived. She survived Titus. She survived Ontari. The body you saw was not hers being burnt.”

“No,” it was said with such resistance, such disbelief, such _something _that Clarke didn’t know what else to do.

“I can not be real for you, Clarke,” Lexa said, and Clarke hated the words she heard, she hated the things Lexa told her. “Alexandria is alive.”

She didn’t know how to react, she didn’t know how to cope with whatever it was that was being revealed. Part of her couldn’t comprehend, part of her felt an immediate and an intense sense of guilt, of loss, of regret and frustration at whatever time had been lost, if only because Lexa would never lie to her, she believed that so very deeply. But she couldn’t come to terms with it, she couldn’t accept it. She couldn’t.

“Don’t say that, Lexa,” Clarke choked out. “Please,” she didn’t know what else to say as her heart broke, as her shoulders began to shake. “Please don’t say that,” and Clarke tried to pull Lexa to her, she tried to embrace her for she fears Lexa would slip through her fingers. “You. You are real, Lexa, don’t tell me you don’t exist, don’t tell me you aren’t _you._”

Lexa shook her head, the motion spoke of finality, of acceptance and it crushed Clarke more than any thing had before.

“Alexandria is real,” Lexa said. “She is real, she is alive,” Lexa reached out and grasped her face in her hands. “She needs you, Clarke,” and Clarke leant into the touch, she couldn’t help it. “She needs you, Clarke,” Lexa repeated more firmly. “You must understand,” and Lexa squeezed her face just a little more firmly.

“I—” Clarke blinked once, twice, thrice, each time in an attempt to clear her vision as much as it was an attempt to clear her thoughts.

“When the flame is forcibly taken,” Lexa continued, this time with a little more urgency, “it breaks their minds, Clarke,” Lexa said. “It takes with it everything that it learnt, everything that it experienced so that the next Commander can learn, so that they will have the knowledge and the guidance of the Commanders,” and Lexa grimaced, her face contorted for a fraction of a second and Clarke’s blood froze as she saw black blood beginning to drip from Lexa’s nose. “You must understand, Clarke,” and Lexa shook her head, her fingers beginning to twitch against her cheeks. “Alexandria is alive, she needs you. She does not rememb—” Lexa winced as her face twitched. “I can not stay much longer,” and Clarke didn’t know what to say or what to do. “Listen to Athena, Clarke,” Lexa said and she smiled, the expression now full of love, full of pride, full of so many emotions that Clarke thought them so very tangible. “Alexandria is alive, Clarke,” there was one last smile. “Alexandria will grow to love you as I have loved you, Clarke.”

And with that Lexa’s eyes rolled into the back of her skull, she twitched and then she collapsed onto the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

Wind danced across the lands as Polis and its people slept wrapped in warmth, in comfort and quiet. Stars that normally shone in the night sky did little to pierce the nothingness that settled in her mind. Even the flicker of flames, burning fire trapped in fireplaces and the crackle of a hearty furnace at work late at night existed not in whatever time or place she had come to find herself.

Athena stood on her balcony, her gaze unfocused as she looked out over Polis. She leant against the weathered stone railing and she wondered, she pondered, thought and hoped that things might one day become more clear than they seemed to be. 

She turned her gaze up to the heavens above, perhaps in search of the moon, perhaps in search of an answer written in the stars. But neither of those things came to her, not when she peered into the deepest of depths, not when she peered into the furthest of fars.

And it was strange. So strange.

She had been Commander far longer than any other. She had lead her people through one last great war, she had pieced together the broken remnants of a people full of hate, full of resentment and frustrations. She had kept the Coalition together when others had wished for its collapse. And peace had settled, it had come to last. She had done more than most before her had ever accomplished.

And yet she felt alone. She felt unguided, uncertain of how to proceed. How could she know how to proceed? There had always been someone to guide her in strategy, in battle plans. There had always been someone to guide her through the politics of clans, negotiations that could be made with a moment’s silence, or be shattered by a single wrong gesture. Almost all who guided her could be turned to in times when her life was in danger, where a foe stood in front of her with a sword, a knife, a spear or any other kind weapon held in their grasp.

And Athena would listen. She would listen and she would learn and she would adapt.

And yet she felt alone now more than ever.

If only because no Commander before her had ever lived in times of peace, where their thoughts weren’t almost solely focused on how to make it to the next rising of the sun without being slain in their sleep.

She didn’t like the quiet. She didn’t like the solitude. She didn’t like that it gave her time to relive old memories, old hates, old loves and old wants.

And yet she felt alone—

A man stood beside her, his presence unknown and unfelt until that very thought. Athena didn’t react though. At first it had been strange, uncomfortable, but she had grown used to it, in fact part of her enjoyed their presence. Perhaps it made her feel a little less alone in the world.

“You are uncertain, Athena,” he said quietly, his voice gentle and warm.

“I am,” and she looked up at the man to find a wisdom existing openly in his gaze. “I—” she paused, she took the time to take in his appearance, from the scar that cut down his cheek, into his neck and that disappeared down into the collar of the leathers he wore. She shrugged. She didn’t know what else to do in that moment. “I am.”

Athena looked away then, she tried not to let her worries live so openly across her face and she took a moment to ponder something else, whatever it be, if only to give herself a little time to consider something different.

“What would you do?” she asked.

The man laughed quietly, his voice full of warmth and kindness.

“It is funny,” he said after his laughter died down. “I never fought against bandits. Never brought sword to them in conflict. We had greater things to worry about.”

“Yes,” Athena said, she didn’t know what else she could really say. “And I never fought against the Mountain,” and she shrugged, the gesture perhaps so slight it was more thought than felt. “It does not feel fair,” she finished, the words lame upon her tongue.

“Fair?” he said quietly.

“How is it fair that I am the one to be given the gift of life without a foe so many others fought against,” though her words were question, she thought them more observation, more uncertain thought of some intangible concept she knew not how to grasp. “I hardly remember what a Mountain Man looks like,” she said more quietly. “I hardly remember what a reaper looks like,” a bittersweet laugh fell from her lips. “Yet I am the one to guide our people in this new world.”

Her companion remained quiet for so long that she thought him gone. He was so silent, so gentle beside her that perhaps for a moment she thought the conversation an imagined old haunt of memories long since faded to time.

But then he spoke.

“You feel as though you do not deserve what you rule over.”

“How could I deserve something for which I never fought?” Athena didn’t know if she made sense. But perhaps the meaning behind her words were understood better than she could ever hope to articulate.

“Perhaps, Athena,” he said after a too long pause. “Perhaps you are the only one who can keep the peace,” and he turned to face her. “All I knew was violence,” he said. “All every Heda has known was violence,” and he smiled. “Some were forged in war, in violence, in suffering,” he said. “Those only ever knew how to respond to their problems with violence for all they had to guide them were others who had lived the same. But some were forged in destruction, in loss, hopelessness. It let them dream of a better world, of a world no others could have ever imagined,” he quietened for a moment in thought before he continued, his voice a little more measured. “Perhaps that desire gave _her_ the strength to fight for a new world, for a chance at peace,” he paused for a moment, and Athena didn’t need him to tell her who he spoke of, no others ever dared challenge their people’s way more than her predecessor. “Her actions ushered in the peace you found yourself thrust into without training, without preparation, without the knowledge that you had slain your brothers and sisters in a conclave where only the strongest survived. Your rule was never ushered in with the death of family, of those you had lived with for years,” he said quietly. “Perhaps Athena, who our people needed to lead them in this time of peace was a Heda forged through its inception.”

Athena remained quiet for so long that she thought she had imagined the conversation. But his words filled her mind, his knowledge seemed to guide her thoughts and give strength to her decisions. And she knew she would listen, if only because he had always been the one to chase away the shadows of doubt that always seem to linger somewhere deep in the darkest parts of her uncertain mind.

“Thank you,” Athena whispered as she turned to face the man, but as her gaze settled upon his face, she found his image slowly fading from her mind as consciousness slowly began to bring her back.

And so Agamemnon smiled at her as he always did.

“You are very welcome, Athena.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Athena’s eyes opened slowly. It took her longer than it should to remember where she had been and it took her longer than it should for the feeling to return to her fingers. Her vision was blurred, her head ached for a second and her body felt stiff, leaden, dulled and too slow to react to her commands. It took a second longer before she remembered where exactly she was and what had happened.

Athena took in a steadying breath, she knew the dizziness would come, and she knew it would pass given time. She didn’t know if she should feel embarrassed, ashamed, scared of what Clarke would think, but she didn’t quite let herself dwell too much longer on those thoughts. She never did, not when it involved Clarke. She couldn’t let herself. No matter how much she wished to do just that.

It didn’t surprise Athena that she heard two voices in Clarke’s home. The first she recognised as Clarke’s quiet timbre, the way it seemed to lower just a touch at times when she was stressed over analysing any and all situations she would have found herself in. The second voice Athena heard was that of a man’s, whose voice was soft, gentle, something that contrasted so very deeply with who it belonged to.

She took in another breath, this one perhaps an attempt to stave off whatever explanations she would need to give when her consciousness was noted.

And so Athena sat up from wherever she had been lying and she hoped that Lexa had in some way been able to say what she had been too weak to say for far too long.

* * *

Clarke needed time to think over every little thing that had happened in her life. There were so many things she didn’t understand, from _how _exactly ALIE 2.0 had become what the grounders considered a deity, a god, a spirit. She didn’t understand how consciousness were passed down through the flame, nor did she understand the science behind how Lexa had taken over Athena’s body. She didn’t think she would ever understand the science and technology behind it.

There were things she knew she didn’t know too. Far too many uncertainties existed in her life, far too many responsibilities she didn’t know the answer to. That was why she had fled, had made a home for herself deep in the forests with River her only companion. But the one thing she hadn’t known? The one thing she could never have known for the last decade? Lexa had, according to _Lexa _been alive all this time. And that was what she didn’t understand.

How could she?

“Clarke,” she looked up at her name being called to find Axios stepping away from the still unconscious Athena.

“How is she?” Clarke asked, and she didn’t really know how much Axios knew. She didn’t know how much he understood of the flame, of the technology behind it.

“Heda’s heartbeat has steadied,” he said with what could only be described as quiet satisfaction.

“Good,” and Clarke didn’t really know what else to say. She hadn’t had any experience with dealing with those taken over by another intelligence for a decade.

Axios moved away from Athena and he sat in a lone chair, his broad shoulders and his great sandy blonde beard making him seem far too large a man for the home Clarke had made for herself.

“How’s your arm?” she asked, and she lifted her chin in gesture at the way he kept it a little closer to his side than normal.

Axios shrugged the shoulder of his injured arm, perhaps subconsciously, perhaps to show it didn’t bother him as much as it would others.

“Healing,” Axios said with a gentle sigh.

“I’m glad you made it back,” and Clarke smiled, the expression more honest than she would have let herself express once upon a time.

Axios smiled slightly at that and Clarke couldn’t help but to find his disposition so very different to the way Gustus had been. Perhaps it was because Axios guarded Athena in times of peace, perhaps because he was simply a calmer man. Or perhaps he hid it well, perhaps it was a ploy of his to fool others into thinking him incapable of attacking and defending should he need to.

“Heda would have banished me from the clans if I had not returned,” Axios said lightly, and Clarke didn’t fight the smile that once again found its way upon her lips.

She nodded to herself before leaning back in the chair she sat in. Some emotion existed within her that she couldn’t really describe. She understood what _Lexa _had said. At least in the literal sense. But abstractly? She couldn’t grasp it. Not when she had seen Lexa die in front of her. Not when she had tried to stop the bleeding caused by the bullet meant for her. Perhaps there was hope, something she hadn’t dared feel in years, perhaps there was anger, resentment, hurt at Athena having kept whatever truth existed from her. And yet she couldn’t blame Athena, not when something so belief altering could disrupt a culture built upon one spirit guiding the next. Hadn’t _Lexa _said just that? Hadn’t she said that the secret was kept from everyone? Perhaps Axios truly didn’t know.

And so Clarke settled for staying quiet, for not saying word until Athena could answer and speak for herself. It was the least she could d—

Movement caught her attention and Clarke’s gaze snapped to the couch where Athena lay. Athena sat up in the couch, her hair a little dishevelled, her nose reddened from Axios trying to stem and bleeding and her skin just slightly clammy.

“Heda,” Axios began as he stood from the chair and began moving towards h—

“Leave us, Axios,” Athena said, her voice just barely breaking at the edges.

Axios paused and Clarke could see the war within him for half a second before he bowed his head and turned for the door, his eyes just once glancing in her direction before he slipped out from her home.

Athena’s dismissal of Axios was answer enough to half of her questions and so Clarke waited until she was sure Axios had put enough distance between them that they would not be heard.

“What happened, Athena?” Clarke said, whatever emotions she should be feeling forced deep down into her core for the moment.

Athena blinked once, twice, she looked away, her hands clenched and grasped at the soft quilt she sat upon and Clarke saw her jaw clench tightly as something close to frustration and anger began to seep into the Commander’s eyes.

And yet Clarke saw that emotion fade, lessen, soften and slowly turn to something close to hurt, to loss, to a broken acceptance that made her want to look away, if only because it felt so raw, so open and real.

“Athena,” Clarke whispered quietly.

“Lexa spoke to you,” Athena said, gaze cast down onto the ground.

“She did,” Clarke said after she swallowed the lump in her throat had taken residence.

Clarke watched as Athena refused to meet her gaze for a long moment, and through the silence she found herself trying to recall everything that had happened in her life in the hopes that something would help her make sense of what had happened.

“Did Axios see anything?” Athena asked eventually.

“No,” Clarke said. “He only came in when you collapsed.”

Athena took in a shuddering breath and then she looked at her, and this time Clarke could see a determination in her eyes as if something had been decided without conscious effort.

“Lexa is alive,” Athena said eventually and Clarke winced as Athena looked her directly in the eyes.

“I—” Clarke paused quietly. “How?” Of course _Lexa _had explained some of it. But it had been frantic. It had been unfocused, desperate even. “Lexa,” and Clarke felt old pains she thought long since healed beginning to seep. “She’s in there, with you?” and she didn’t know if she made sense.

“Yes,” and Athena nodded, her voice now a little more tight than it had been moments ago. “But she did not die when Titus shot her.”

Clarke looked away then, perhaps because she didn’t want Athena to see the pain in her eyes, perhaps because she didn’t want to see the pain in Athena’s.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Clarke already knew the answer. If only because she understood so very terribly what _Lexa _had meant when she said the clan’s would revolt if they found out Commanders were allowed to retire. She knew they’d see it as an abdication of a lifelong vow of servitude and duty. She knew if they ever found out that they would kill all past Commanders.

And yet part of Clarke thought she had earned the right to know.

Athena didn’t really respond other than to maintain what eye contact they shared. And that was answer enough for Clarke. She knew that Athena knew. She knew that Athena knew she understood everything that could be said and everything that couldn’t be said. But it still hurt. Clarke thought it always would.

“Do you know how hard it is, Clarke?” Athena said quietly, and this time there was something different in the way Athena spoke, in the way her words ushered in challenge and regret and remorse andany number of different emotions she couldn’t find the time to analyse. “Do you know how difficult it is?” Athena repeated quietly, but as Clarke met her gaze she thought the question rhetorical, if only because she knew exactly what Athena asked.

“I do,” and Clarke found her lip trembling.

Perhaps the one certainty in life, the one painful constant, was that emotions were complicated, they were unruly, unkind at times, full of vigour and energy and could tear her apart and build her into something greater at a moment’s notice. And she knew Athena felt everything. She knew Athena held lifetimes of memories, emotions, loves and hates within her mind. How could she not? And she knew what Athena asked, if only because she felt it too.

In that moment there weren’t a lot of things Clarke was sure of. She wasn’t sure if who she had been speaking to was really _Lexa _or if it was an artificial construct merely based on the memory of someone she had loved. Perhaps it was a ghost? She didn’t know if Alexandria - whoever she was, was actually Lexa. She didn’t know if it had all been a dream or a nightmare, she didn’t know so many things. But perhaps she understood what Athena meant by it being difficult, hard, so very confusing.

So many things Athena did reminded her of Lexa. And yet now she wondered if those things Athena did, those little quirks, the lifting of a chin or the arching of an eyebrow, were simply passed down from one Commander to the next, no more unique than the any other thought or memory or shared knowledge possessed by every single person to take the flame.

Perhaps who Clarke had fallen in love with had never truly been one singular person. Maybe it had been an amalgamation of so many people, who had shared experiences, loves and losses and hates and fears.

But she wouldn’t let herself think that. She couldn’t. But for why, she did not know.

And so Clarke took in a shuddering breath as she tried so very deeply to control her emotions, as she tried to ignore what she saw in Athena’s eyes. If only because she needed answers, if only because she needed to know the truth. Whatever it may be.

“Athena,” Clarke whispered as she looked Athena in the eyes. She knew Athena had already anticipated what her words would be from the sadness, from the hurt, from every single thing that Clarke had come to recognise within her green eyes. “I need to see her, Athena,” Clarke saw the tears of pain just barely visible in Athena’s gaze.

And it hurt.

Clarke couldn’t imagine what Athena must have felt, not really, not truly. She didn’t know how she would have react if she had ever been put in her place. But she could understand it somehow.

If only because Athena had professed her feelings for her as if she knew everything would change in the next few painful moments.

Athena nodded just once, the gesture so full of emotion. But there was a bittersweet acceptance behind it, something full of love, something full of devastation and regret and happiness that it made Clarke’s heart bleed within her chest.

And so Athena stood, she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and she looked her in the eyes.

“I will take you to her.”

* * *

_Two Weeks Later_

* * *

Alexandria stood at the river’s edge, her bare feet happy as the water lapped at her toes. The sun beat down upon her shoulders and the lightness of her clothes let the breeze and whatever coolness of the day wend its way across her flesh. The fishing rod held in her hands was barely felt as she slowly danced the line through the flowing of the water. She could see splashes of fish in the depths of the river, she could see the shadows of fish as they darted back and forth and her smile turned to a frown as one fish who had slowly been approaching her bait grew wary and darted away. Brutus huffed an annoyance beside her and she knew he must have sensed or seen their prey flee.

“Yes Brutus,” Alexandria said with a quiet sigh. “I know,” and she nudged him with her knee just enough that he looked up at her and licked her elbow before turning his attention back to the fish.

Fishing wasn’t so much a necessity, in fact it took her far too long to catch her prey this way. But she thought it calming. Or at least it had been calming once upon a time. And yet this time it wasn’t. And it wasn’t for Athena had sent a messenger not a week ago that had told them she was returning to visit for some unknown reason, and Alexandria knew not why she visited so frequently, she knew not why the Commander had decided to come and go as she pleased.

But it wasn’t her place to argue, to question. At least not openly. Even Eamon and Agamemnon had seemed a little puzzled, but they too had kept question carefully locked behind sealed lips. If only because it was respectful not to question.

And so Alexandria had found herself turning to fishing to calm her nerves, in part because she couldn’t shake the feeling that Athena’s return had something to do with the things she had told her. Maybe she’d be given answers sooner rather than later though, maybe she’d be given a respite from the uncertainties and the unknowns, maybe she’d be gi—

The fishing line jerked, it twitched and Alexandria’s eyes snapped to the water to find a fish hooked, its powerful body already trying to flee the hook, the line, whatever was trapping it in place.

Brutus reacted instantly to the victory, he stood at attention, his ears perked and his tail beginning to wag far too heavily for it to be comfortable each time it slapped Alexandria in the thigh. And so Alexandria pushed aside all other thoughts in that moment, she grit her teeth and she felt the blood pumping through her veins as she began what was sure to be a long and powerful battle of life and death between hunter and hunted.

* * *

To say Alexandria had to watch Brutus like a hawk lest he steal the fish she had battled with for what felt like eons would be an understatement. She knew him prone to inching closer and closer until all he needed to do was reach out with his snout and snap up the fish. And yet she didn’t mind. It kept her senses honed, at least as much as could be expected. She had a basket of ice kept out of the sun and under a large tree, fish scales lay scattered on the pebbles that spread out around her and she found herself getting lost in the movements as she scaled, gutted and cleaned the fish with as much practised ease as she could muster. Every now and then she would give in to the whining of Brutus and pass him a slice of the fish. She’d have to make sure there was enough to feed Eamon and Agamemnon though. If only because she knew Brutus more than capable of begging for more until none was left.

It was funny, too, Alexandria thought. Or perhaps not really funny, but rather odd, unfamiliar, something between discomfort and happy contentedness. But it was times like this, with knife in hand, blood covered and sweat stained, that her body seemed to react to the stimulus. She knew it subconscious, she knew whatever made her body react in the way it did was simply a left over of her time serving her people. But her senses always seemed to hone, always seemed to sharpen. She found herself able to pick up the slightest changes in the wind, in the air, in the sounds that drifted around her. Her eyesight seemed sharper too. If only because she could notice movements she normally wouldn’t. And she didn’t like it. She didn’t like that it reminded her of things she could not remember, she didn’t like that it made her body react in ways she could not recall. And perhaps that was why she picked apples. Perhaps that was why she preferred the gentle familiarity of walking through the rows of trees, the grass underfoot and the calm of the scents of fruit that filtered through the air. But, for a moment Alexandria could pre—

She winced, she grimaced and she looked down at her finger to find that she had cut herself. Black blood oozed out of the small cut, it began to drip down her hand and before it could fall onto the fish she fumbled, moved and stuck her hand into the flowing of the river. The water seemed to calm the barely registered sting and she found herself feeling frustrated, feeling annoyed, something close to anger bubbling gently under the surface.

She didn’t like looking at her own blood. She didn’t think many people would. But there was something in the way it made her heart clench that disquieted her, that made her body recoil, made her subconscious want to flee.

Brutus seemed to react to her discomfort though for she heard him growl, she looked over her shoulder and she found him looking out around them lest something outwards had been the thing to cause her pain.

“It is ok, Brutus,” Alexandria said quietly. “I am just a fool,” and she smiled as he looked at her, as his head cocked to the side and as she moved closer to her, the fish he had at one stage been more than eager to steal all but forgotten.

Alexandria reached out with her uninjured hand and scratched under his chin as Brutus came to stand next to her, his eyes still carefully looking out around them in case danger should appear.

And perhaps in that moment Alexandria found herself smiling something between sadness and happiness. And she did for she thought she very much enjoyed the company of the great Brutus, who cared not for her past, who cared not for her failures that had brought her to the place she now lived. And she enjoyed his company because she knew he enjoyed hers.

And it was simple. Straightforward. Easy for her to understand and easy for her to accept. And that was what her life had become now, wasn’t it? Easy, straightforward. Simple.

* * *

“So, Brutus,” Alexandria said with a laugh as she continued the awkward dance of walking, on her back the basket of fish and ice, and between her legs a dog far too big to be playing the games he once did as a puppy. “I think it is only fair that Eamon do the cooking and the cleaning, yes?” She was sure Brutus more than understood for he huffed what could only be described as agreement. “That is what I thought.”

Alexandria laughed once more as she hitched the basket a little higher on her shoulders as she turned one last corner in the row that was the apples trees that stretched out around her homestead.

But her eyes widened then narrowed a fraction as she realised she saw more than the usual horses tied outside. It took her barely a second to register that Athena must have been present. She’d recognise her horse anywhere. But what made her eyes narrow in curious suspicion was that there was an unfamiliar horse present, one whose owner wasn’t one of the other servants who helped around the homestead, who kept to themselves and did little to interact with them.

“We have company,” Alexandria said quietly to Brutus as she continued walking forward, whoever the newcomer was soon to be revealed.

Alexandria found herself eyeing the one new horse a little more closely. She couldn’t help but to admire its coat of caramel brown, that seemed to shimmer in the day’s sunlight. She even found herself smiling just a bit as the horse nipped at Athena’s, who in turn shook its head and seemed more than used to the behaviour.

That intrigued Alexandria though, if only because she wondered just how familiar this newcomer was to Athena given how comfortable their horses were with each other. Perhaps they were a close friend, a nightblood that for some reason had been brought to them?

Alexandria found herself standing at her front door then, her ears listened to the sounds of quiet conversation and she knew something was different. She couldn’t quite tell, but she thought she heard Eamon talking, his voice quiet, perhaps a little more respectful than usual. She listened for a moment longer and she knew she heard Athena’s voice and this time it seemed tighter, perhaps a little tired, perhaps a little strained. But then a third voice came, and this one must have belonged to the newcomer for Alexandria didn’t recognise it at all. She sighed, shook her head and braced herself for whatever the next few moments would bring.

“Behave,” Alexandria said with a gentle laugh to Brutus who tried nudging forward. “We have guests, Brutus.”

Alexandria pushed open the door and stepped inside, her eyes were quick to adjust to the light and she found Eamon sitting at the table, one hand resting atop its surface, the other nursing a small mug in its grasp. Athena sat opposite him, her posture poised and regal and a woman sat next to her.

Alexandria took the woman’s measure in a fraction of a second. She saw the wild braids that stretched throughout her blonde hair. She noticed the pale of her skin, the blue of her eyes and she found herself wonderingwho exactly it was that had been allowed into their sanctuary.

All eyes snapped to her though and Alexandria felt herself put on the spot, if only because she didn’t like the way Athena’s gaze seemed for very terribly trying to hold back an emotion. But what really made her skin crawl was the expression of the new woman who stared at her with so much emotion, so much horror, so much fear and want and longing and sadness that she didn’t quite know how to react.

“Hello?” Alexandria didn’t really know what else to say in way of greeting at the way the woman slowly rose from her chair, vision ever pinned on her.

Brutus shuffled forward, oblivious to whatever was happening around him as he began to sniff at the woman.

“Lexa,” the woman said quietly, and the name made Alexandria flinch, if only because she hadn’t thought of herself as that woman in years.

“I—” Alexandria paused, she swallowed and she tried to make sense of whatever it was that stood in front of her. So many thoughts and scenarios flashed through her mind. She wasn’t dumb, wasn’t foolish, from the way the woman looked at her she knew they had once known each other. And yet she couldn’t understand how. The woman’s accent was odd, barely recognisable really. And yet that name fell from her lips with such familiarity that it seemed neither foreign nor unknown to her. “I go by Alexandria now,” she finished, the words lame on her tongue.

The woman blinked, and Alexandria was sure she saw a single tear fall from her eyes.

“Ok,” and the woman smiled something so full of emotion that it made her want to recoil.

And so Alexandria asked the only thing she thought she could ask given the circumstance.

“Did I know you?”


	11. Chapter 11

Two weeks had seem to come and go both too slowly and far too quickly for Clarke to really take in what she would be faced with. Athena had hardly spoken to her save for a far too short dance of awkward conversation, whatever emotions that had once existed between them now so very twisted and bent out of shape. Clarke thought Athena knew not how to navigate the new _something _that existed between them and Clarke didn’t blame her at all. She felt exactly the same.

She had so many questions that she wanted to ask, so many explanations that needed to be heard and she had far too much to think about before she could even really piece together what she was being told. Perhaps those answers would come some time in the future. Perhaps they never would.

And so Clarke tried to settle her breathing as she listened to the conversation that seemed so very awkward as it moved back and forth between Eamon and Athena. Clarke didn’t even really know who Eamon was. She could guess, of course, but still she had so many questions that needed answering.

“How has Agamemnon been?” Athena asked.

Clarke turned her attention back to Athena to find her head tilted to the side ever so slightly as she looked at Eamon with yet another emotion she couldn’t quite place.

Eamon shrugged one shoulder as he reclined back in his chair.

“He is the same,” he said. “Still the stubborn old man he was when last you visited.”

Though his words seemed unkind or uncaring Clarke could tell there was a worry in his voice. She took a moment to take in Eamon then, and what she saw was a man who seemed wiser than he looked, who seemed more weary of the world than he should. She couldn’t quite place it and yet she knew all that to be true. Perhaps it was simply because she knew and suspected that Eamon was a former Commander, that he had once served his people only for the flame to be ripped from him without care nor worry for his future.

“He still sleeps?” Athena asked quietly.

“Yes,” Eamon answered with another shrug. “More than usual these past few weeks.”

Clarke didn’t quite know what drove her to speak, she didn’t know why she thought she could intrude on a conversation clearly not meant for her participation. But whatever drove her to speak seemed to do so without much care for any of those things.

“I’m a healer,” Clarke said and she watched as Eamon’s eyes snapped to her. “I could check him over if you wanted,” and she winced at the way Eamon’s eyes drilled into her more forcefully.

But Eamon sighed, he smiled and he shook his head, “that is not for me to decide,” and he looked away in thought for a split second. “Agamemnon is a stubborn old man whose mind is rarely changed.”

Clarke smiled if only because she could imagine the kind of man Agamemnon was. Eamon leant forward then and Clarke found herself yet again pinned with an intense gaze.

“It is not often that we have visitors,” he said after a moment, his head inclined towards Athena. “In fact,” and he gestured around himself and to the emptiness of the room. “There are rare few that even know of this place and its existence.”

Clarke swallowed whatever lump had formed in her throat. She didn’t quite know how best to respond. She knew enough to know that whatever this place was had been kept secret for generations. She could tell from the wall of weapons that past Commanders had lived and retired in peace and quiet.

But how could she explain? To anyone? To even herself?

It still seemed too sudden, too uncertain, too strange for her to truly grasp the enormity of the revelations.

“I—” Clarke paused as she began to recall years long since past. She found old memories coming to mind that she hadn’t let herself dwell on lest they consume her, she felt old emotions long since tempered slowly begin to simmer and she found herself smiling, perhaps at an old memory, perhaps at the strangeness of her life, and perhaps simply because she didn’t know what else to do. “I knew the previous Commander,” Clarke said and she wouldn’t elaborate. Not before she had a chance to try to confront her past.

Eamon’s interest seemed to strengthen at the admission and Clarke wondered if he and Lexa were close. How could they not be? Hadn’t Lexa seemingly lived together with Agamemnon for the last decade?

“Has it just been you three?” Clarke asked. She didn’t know why she thought she could get away with asking such a question and yet behind Eamon’s hard exterior she thought him a kind man, someone tempered by loss and experience.

“You are Wanheda,” Eamon said in answer and Clarke found herself glancing at Athena to find her ever poised, though there was tension in the way she sat as if she forced herself to remain quiet and calm and silent amongst the storm of emotions Clarke felt within her own heart.

It also didn’t slip her notice that Eamon didn’t answer her question. Perhaps he didn’t trust her, perhaps he didn’t want to open up without knowing her intentions. Whatever the reason though, she didn’t care. She wouldn’t blame him for not answering.

“I was,” and Clarke looked away as she remembered old nightmares. “I still am,” and she smiled something wry and bitter.

Eamon seemed to find something a little humorous for he chuckled a gentle laugh before settling a little more comfortably in his chair.

“And I am no longer Heda,” and he inclined his head towards Athena. “We all have secrets,” Eamon continued. “Perhaps we will share ours together in times to come. Heda clearly has hers,” he finished, an eyebrow raised and Clarke wondered just how comfortable they must have been around Athena after so many years.

“Agamemnon ,” Athena said, voice slightly strained, intention clearly to change the subject. “He has been ill for some time, Clarke,” and Athena turned her attention to her. “If you would be able to see to him I would be grateful.”

“Yeah” Clarke said as she tried to meet Athena’s gaze only to find Athena staring off somewhere into the distance, “I can do that. It’s the lea—”

And then the door opened.

Clarke’s gaze snapped to the front door, she blinked back the sudden influx of light and she thought herself moving in slow motion, she thought herself unable to think more quickly than the slowest of thoughts. Perhaps it hadn’t really sunk in over the last two weeks that she was travelling to see someone she thought dead for a decade. It certainly hadn’t sunk in as she conversed with Eamon as Athena remained quiet as ever. But perhaps as the door opened, as the light shone in from the outside and as a silhouette remained framed by memories now flooding her mind, Clarke thought she realised.

A woman stood just inside the doorway, her brow glistened with the slightest sheen of sweat from the day’s heat and what appeared to be a large basket was slung over her shoulders.

Her hair, ever wild, was pulled back in a single messy braid that tumbled over one of her shoulder, and it seemed so very different to memories Clarke had once relived time after time. And everything was different. Clarke couldn’t take it in enough, she couldn’t juggle the image of what stood in front of her with who she had lost. This woman had kind eyes graced with crows feet, had the beginnings of laugh wrinkles etched across her face, and an uncertainty never seen before in her eyes. Her clothing was so starkly different, too. She wore clothes clearly meant to be comfortable in the heat of the summer, the pleated cloth that hung down from her waist was perhaps something between shorts and skirt, open enough to let her body breathe, loose enough to give her the ability to run, jump, dive, roll do anything she could desire. Even the sleeveless top she wore seemed too gentle, too soft, too carefree for Clarke to understand.

“Hello?” her voice almost made Clarke break for it seemed too real, too uncertain, too familiar for her to understand.

It took Clarke by surprise when she realised she had come to stand from her chair, it took Clarke by surprise when she realised the woman had been shadowed by a great dog whose head was tilted ever so slightly to the side as it began to pad its way towards her, curiosity in its large eyes.

Clarke tried to fight for the words to say, she tried to think of what she could say. But after a decade, after so many nights and days, weeks and months and years, she knew not how to put to words the things she felt. Part of her wanted to turn away, part of her wanted to flee, wanted to escape whatever dream she lived within for she couldn’t even begin to accept what her eyes saw.

But Clarke knew it real, through the horror, through the pain, through the loss. Her lips parted once but no sound came. They parted twice, but words were lost to her. Maybe saying a name would be enough to break the silence, perhaps saying the only thing that filled her mind in that very moment was the only thing she could say.

And so.

“Lexa.”

It was simple, it was safe, it was the most true thing Clarke had ever let herself say in so very long. But something was wrong, something was broken, something was unkind for the woman — Lexa — whoever she had become flinched, shied away from the name and seemed loathe to accept.

“I—” her voice seemed to choke, it seemed uncertain, so very different to the confidence that had existed so defiantly within green eyes. “I go by Alexandria now.”

_Alexandria._

Wasn’t that what _Lexa _had called her? Wasn’t that what _Lexa_ had told her what she was called? But that memory of _Lexa, _that memory of the confusion, of the uncertainty, of whatever existed made Clarke more confused than she had ever been before. If only because she had spoken to _Lexa _and yet Lexa stood in front of her now, in that very moment. And yet it wasn’t Lexa. Not like she had known her.

Whatever was to happen next, whatever was to come to exist between them in the future, Clarke found herself embracing the only emotion she could after so long. And it was happiness, it was relief, it was pain and anger and something she couldn’t describe. Maybe it was every single emotion she had felt in her life, perhaps it was every single hurt and and loss, hate and love that had filled her heart and ruled her emotions. Clarke blinked and it didn’t surprise her to feel a tear run down her cheek. She didn’t care though. Not when Lexa stood in front of her, not when Lexa was alive, not when her heart began to beat with a little more life than it had done for years.

“Ok,” Clarke said quietly, and she didn’t try to stop the smile that spread across her lips. If Lexa wanted to be called Alexandria, if Lexa _was _Alexandria, if the Lexa she had known didn’t exist anymore, Clarke wouldn’t complain, wouldn’t second guess, wouldn’t even dare to challenge. She would accept it with as much strength as she could possess.

Clarke saw confusion in Alexandria’s eyes though, she saw uncertainty, she saw the hints of fear and the beginnings of suspicion.

And so it didn’t surprise Clarke one single bit to hear Alexandria’s next words.

Though it hurt nonetheless.

“Did I know you?”


	12. Chapter 12

There was silence for a moment, long enough that it threatened to become awkward, long enough that Alexandria thought she hadn’t been heard. So many thoughts flit through her mind, so many scenarios, so many possibilities and unknowns that seemed somewhere between the cruel and the unkind, the gentle and the too subtle.

She took the time to take measure of the woman who stood in front of her though. The woman seemed close in age to her, but there was a depth, an age, a wisdom in her eyes that Alexandria could see. Perhaps it was because the woman continued to stare at her with such intensity, perhaps it was because the woman seemed to be looking at her as if she saw a ghost, as if she was looking into the past as much as she was living in the present.

Wrinkles just barely visible touched the corners of her eyes, wrinkles brushed across her forehead and Alexandria could tell the woman had lived a life full of scowls, of furrowed brows, of frowning and frustration. And yet there was a lightness, something that seemed to have flourished in spite of those weights, something that had come to learn to live with and to accept whatever pains her past had bestowed upon her.

“My name is Clarke,” the woman said quietly, and Alexandria’s gaze snapped back to the woman’s.

Her eyes, ever piercing, ever unwavering, were blue, deep, so rich and gentle that it made her skin crawl.

But that name was one Alexandria had heard before. Those who had rarely visited her homestead had mentioned a Clarke — Wanheda — someone who had crashed to the ground in a ball of flame, who had rid the lands of the Mountain and who had survived turmoil and war.

That accent was odd, too. It wasn’t something Alexandria had ever heard before. It seemed at times similar, at times unknown, but it drew her in as much as it made her want to recoil.

“You are Wanheda,” Alexandria said. It was the only thing she could think to say. She still didn’t know why Athena had allowed Wanheda to visit, she didn’t know why she had allowed someone other than natblida into the most secret of sanctuaries. And yet Athena had, and Alexandria thought that Athena’s reasonings would be guarded as much as the memories the new Commander now possessed.

But perhaps, as Alexandria continued to look Wanheda in the eyes, she realised that she had been brought to the homestead for exactly the same reason she, Eamon and Agamemnon had. Perhaps she was tired of living with the responsibilities of Wanheda. Alexandria wouldn’t blame her if that was the case. The Commander of Death was a title rarely bestowed on others, and with it came so much expectation that eventually most would break.

And so she nodded to herself, if only because that was the only reason for Wanheda’s appearance that made sense to her.

And yet Wanheda still looked at her with as much intensity as she was seemingly able to muster. Alexandria wasn’t a fool, she knew she must have met Wanheda when she had the flame, she knew she must have worked with her to take down the Mountain, she knew they must have worked together to calm the turmoil of Azgeda. And perhaps that was why Wanheda looked at her the way she did. Perhaps the shock of seeing an old ghost alive and well was enough to put her into the state she was. What other explanation could there be?

Alexandria watched as Wanheda looked away, as she bit her lip as if to contemplate what she wanted to say. But then she looked back at her and her eyes seemed a little more guarded, a little more careful, a little more broken.

“We knew each other,” Wanheda said eventually. “A long time ago,” and her voice was quiet, it was careful, so very unlike what Alexandria would have ever expected from the Commander of Death.

Alexandria didn’t really know what to say to that. If only because it was so very strange to be faced with someone who remembered her as who she had once been. She wondered if Wanheda saw a broken woman, a pathetic woman, someone so very undeserving of whatever admirations her legacy had forged during her reign as Heda.

Perhaps it was Alexandria’s turn to speak, perhaps it was her turn to try to gleam some of the past.

And so Alexandria spoke.

“We fought together at the fall of the Mountain,” it came more observation than question. More assumption than guess.

Wanheda smiled something between the sad and the bitter, the happy and the longing. It conveyed so much emotion, so many memories that Alexandria knew, she _knew _there had to be more.

“Yeah,” and Wanheda shrugged a shoulder awkwardly. “We did.”

Alexandria looked at Eamon then, perhaps for help for she didn’t know what else to say, perhaps in an attempt to get him to explain at least more of the situation then she had been able to decipher. But Eamon seemed less inclined to help for he simply reclined back in his chair, head cocked to the side slightly as he took in whatever it was that he must have been seeing.

Alexandria’s eyes snapped to Athena at that moment for she realised that she had not spoken, had not done anything in the last few minutes but look at her with something close to pain hidden behind her green eyes. She didn’t like the way she could see something in Athena’s gaze, she didn’t like the fact that Athena must have been reliving whatever it was that Wanheda hadn’t quite said, and Alexandria so very much disliked the simple truth of the matter.

And that truth was that she didn’t know what she didn’t know.

“I have fish,” it came out more lame then Alexandria intended, but she didn’t quite know how else to break the subtle awkwardness that had begun to settle around her. “It will spoil if I do not prepare it.”

That seemed to snap Athena out of her silence for she stood quietly, her gaze flicking to Wanheda briefly before coming back to her.

“Eamon,” Athena said, her voice crisp. “I wish to speak with you.”

Alexandria swallowed the unnoticed lump in her throat as she watched Eamon’s eyebrow raise slightly before he stood from his chair and moved towards the front door. The abrupt awkwardness lingered for only a moment longer before Athena, Eamon and Brutus slipped past her and out into the heat of the late morning.

And with that Alexandria found herself standing alone in the place she had called home for a decade with a stranger standing before her.

“Do you like it?” Wanheda asked quietly after the front door closed.

Alexandria’s head tilted to the side in confusion as she wondered what Wanheda meant—

“Fishing,” Wanheda added after the pause as she gestured to the basket still slung over her shoulder.

“Ah,” Alexandria flinched at her response, if only because she found herself trying to consider so many things that had happened in the last few minutes. “Yes, Wanheda,” she said as she began moving towards the kitchen bench. “I do,” she didn’t really know what else to say, but she noticed Wanheda flinch just a bit at the title she had used.

That reaction didn’t surprise Alexandria though. She knew most bestowed with that honour would sooner forget all that the title reminded them of then they would relive it each time it was uttered.

“Please,” Wanheda said. “Clarke,” and the slight smile that lifted the corner of her lips seemed a little more pained than it wanted to be. “Call me Clarke.”

Though she meant to walk straight to the kitchen bench, Alexandria came to a pause in front of her, she paused for a moment, the distance between them something too distant to be familiar, too close to be comfortable, and yet there was something in the way Wanheda — in the way Clarke continued to look at her, there was something in the way Clarke didn’t shy away from her as she paused.

“Clarke,” Alexandria didn’t mean to say her name so quietly, but she did for she found herself looking Clarke in the eyes as intently as she would watch her prey as it swam through the river. She tried to see more, she tried to find answer to question and shape to unseen object that lay just out of reach of her memories.

“I never thought I’d see you again, Le—” Clarke paused, she bit her lip and she looked away and Alexandria was sure she sensed Clarke reprimand herself. “Alexandria.”

Her name seemed to roll off Clarke’s tongue with as much experimentation as Clarke’s had rolled off hers. But behind the uncertainty, behind the awkward unknowns, Alexandria could tell there was something in the way Clarke looked at her.

“I—” Alexandria didn’t really know what to say in answer to that. It was so very clear that they had known each other long ago. “You have met Eamon,” it was safe, it was simple, it kept the conversation away from the past and somewhere closer to what was known to her.

“Yeah,” Clarke said, and again there was that odd accent, that odd way of speaking that didn’t quite seem familiar to her. “Just briefly— just now,” and Alexandria nodded to herself as she walked past Clarke and to the kitchen bench, the basket of fish beginning to weigh heavily on her shoulders.

Alexandria took a moment to collect her thoughts as she shrugged off the basket and let it settle atop the kitchen bench. She didn’t let herself look up at Clarke who remained standing awkwardly aside, she didn’t know why. Perhaps it was to avoid that piercing gaze, perhaps it was to avoid whatever ghosts seemed to exist in the woman’s eyes. And perhaps it was because she simply had no idea of how to react or respond at all.

But eventually Alexandria felt herself forced to look up at Clarke and she took a moment to let the silence linger, she took a moment to let it settle around them. It was simple, really. There were unknowns that needed to be answered, things that needed to be discovered, pasts that for all intents and purpose should remain sealed yet were being offered to her. Alexandria didn’t know why it was happening now. She didn’t know why Athena had seen fit to allow such an unholy transgression take place. And yet it had.

“We were friends,” Alexandria said and she felt Clarke’s gaze drill into her with such intensity, with such conviction, with such _emotion._

“Yeah,” it came out something of a breath, it came out somewhere between a laugh and a sob, a broken utterance and a quiet prayer. “I guess you could say that.”

But Alexandria was no fool. Not after everything that had happened in her life.

And so it didn’t come as a surprise to Alexandria when she realised that she and Clarke must have been so very much more.


	13. Chapter 13

Athena took in a long and deep breath. The late morning air was warm, the sun’s heat beat against her brow and she was so very thankful to be free of the oppressiveness that had become of the homestead’s interior.

She needed to get away though, she needed to put distance between herself, Alexandria and Clarke. There were too many things she didn’t want to be involved in, there were too many things she so desperately wanted to experience. And yet she knew them not for her to have save for the memories of a long since faded hope.

Eamon came to pause beside her, his hands held behind his back as he seemed to think over whatever had just happened. Brutus in all his oversized obliviousness plopped down next to them under the shade of an overhanging awning.

“Wanheda,” Eamon said eventually, his voice quiet, his tone enough that Athena knew he had questions.

“Yes,” Athena said and she looked out into the distance and at one of the few servants who helped care for those commanders retired to the homestead. She watched as the servant picked their way through row after row of apple tree.

“You have brought her here to seek refuge from her duties,” Eamon said eventually.

“Yes.”

Athena took a moment to compose herself. She knew Eamon well enough that he would know there was more to the situation. She knew him well enough that he wouldn’t pry openly. And yet, for some reason, she felt like she owed him an explanation, as much as she owed Agamemnon, as much as she owed _her. _But for now Athena found herself thinking it not so selfish to _be _a little selfish for as long as she could.

And it was hard to ignore emotions that seemed so real. It was hard to know if what she felt was her own or was the remnants of something not for her to have. Part of her regretted ever saying something to Clarke, part of her regretted not saying something sooner. And part of her simply wished she had never been given the memories of so many who had come to pass.

But that was not her destiny and so she would face it just as every single Commander had faced theirs.

“Clarke will be staying with you,” Athena said eventually.

“I see,” he paused and Athena knew him trying to gauge how much to question. Perhaps she would make it a little less awkward for him, for her.

“I do not know when she will leave,” it was truthful. And it hurt. Or perhaps she only thought it hurt. Maybe her emotions were never real to begin with, were never really hers to have and to own.

Eamon remained silent for a long moment. Athena knew him thinking over everything, she knew him thinking over the unknowns and the knowns and trying to understand the hidden truth behind whatever was driving Clarke’s arrival. But she wouldn’t say, she wouldn’t give more than she had. She thought she deserved what little privacy she could steal.

And so Eamon sighed, he shrugged and he cocked his bald head to the side as a wry smile found itself upon his lips.

“I look forward to getting to know the mighty wanheda,” he said gently.

“Give her time,” Athena whispered, perhaps to herself, perhaps to her memories, perhaps to Eamon and perhaps to no one in particular.

But she sensed Eamon’s eyes on her, she sensed his inquisitive eyes and she knew what he was thinking.

“Give them both time,” Athena said, her voice a gentle echo.

Eamon nodded before he looked out into the rows of apple trees.

“I understand,” he said eventually.

Athena didn’t know if he understood that there was _more _between Alexandria, Clarke and herself_, _she didn’t know if he he simply knew there were things he wasn’t being told. But him understanding was enough, at least for now.

“Come, Brutus,” Eamon said and she looked down at the mighty dog to find his head perking up. “Perhaps we should go for a walk.”

And so Athena found herself standing alone outside the homestead, her hands clasped behind her back and her gaze following the retreating form of Eamon as he continued to wind his way through the apple trees in the distance as Brutus shadowed his every move.

It started slowly, something not quite noticed, perhaps more sensed, but as the seconds ticked by ever so gently she found the shadow of a figure forming in the corner of her eye. She didn’t need to look to know who it would be, she didn’t need to hear the voice to know what would be said.

But eventually she turned to face her companion, perhaps to find some comfort in familiarity, perhaps to find something to lean her weary mind against.

A man stood beside her, and though his face was far less lined than that of the Eamon who Athena watched retreat into the rows of apple trees, there was a depth in her companions eyes, a sadness and a knowledge that she knew existed within her very own. How could it not when they had both experienced the pains, losses and loves that had come with the flame?

It was always something not quite a surprise when she would be greeted by a face so much younger than who she spoke to in the living world, and yet she felt more at home amongst the spirits. She thought it because they might have been the only ones able to understand her pain.

“It always surprises me,” Eamon said quietly, his voice not so old, his face not so scarred. “That he was able to temper his emotions without the spirits to guide him when it took me so many years to do the same.”

Athena smiled sadly for she had his memories, ones she would never share with the Eamon that she now saw throwing a stick into the distance as Brutus chased after it.

“Losing the flame tempers all emotions,” she said. “Why are you here?” she asked, not to be rude, not to be insulting.

“I spoke with her,” Eamon said, his voice perhaps a little detached from the vision she looked upon. “With both of them,” and he sighed, perhaps to find the words to say, perhaps to give himself time to think. “With everyone,” he added.

“And they say I am a fool?” Athena asked. “That what I do is blasphemy, is something unheard of?”

“No, Athena,” Eamon said. “We all understand. How could we not?”

“Are you here to tell me not to second guess? Not to question my own decisions?” she didn’t really know what she thought.

“No, Athena,” Eamon said. “I think I am here,” and he shrugged, “because if I were in your position, I think I would want someone beside me to help even though I know myself too prideful to ask, too stubborn to believe I needed it. Too brash and full of myself to think I would need anything other than to jump into whatever fire that threatened to consume me.”

“I feel alone in this,” Athena whispered. How could she not, though?

Had any other Commander existed when the love of a previous had still lived? When another’s love had still walked through the forests and threatened to spill into the next Commander’s life?

“Perhaps you are alone in that unique experience,” Eamon said. “But you are not alone here,” and Athena blinked as she found Eamon standing in front of her, his hand gently resting atop her beating heart. “You are not alone here,” and he brought his hand up to her forehead slowly, his calloused fingers rough against her forehead. “You will never be alone when you fight your battles, Athena.”

And with that Eamon simply disappeared.

* * *

Alexandria sat awkwardly in Eamon’s vacated chair, her hands clasped in her lap as she looked Clarke in the eyes. Clarke herself sat in the chair she had first occupied, her own gaze just as uncertain as Alexandria assumed hers was.

Silence lingered between them for a moment and Alexandria tried to think of something to say to break the awkwardness that rested upon her shoulders.

“I—”

“How—”

“Sorry,” Alexandria winced, if only because she found it even more awkward now than it had been mere seconds ago.

“It’s ok,” Clarke said with a gentle smile.

Clarke’s smile seemed to grow just a fraction as her words settled between them, and again Alexandria knew more had happened between them, she knew more would need to be discovered. And yet she didn’t really know what to make of that revelation.

Alexandria wondered how close they had grown, she wondered if they had been enemies first, drawn together by a common foe, or if there had been an instant connection that had so very obviously affected Clarke. And Athena.

“Eamon seems nice,” Clarke said after a pause, and Alexandria could tell that hadn’t been what she was originally planning to say.

“Yes,” Alexandria said. “He is a good friend,” it was truthful. “He—” she paused to think, to consider her words and how much to say. “He is a good man.”

“Yeah,” and Clarke shook her head, the motion rueful and full of understanding.

That motion dislodged a small strand of hair from one of Clarke’s many raids and Alexandria found herself taking in the way the sunlight caught its golden hue and made it seem aglow with life. But her eyes snapped back to Clarke’s once she realised she had been staring.

It lasted only a moment, but Alexandria saw an emotion in Clarke’s eyes that gave her a little more than she had before. But it was enough for her to pause, to not look away from her eyes for just long enough that she could admire the depths of blue that seemed to hold equal amounts of pain as they did warmth and understanding. And it was odd. It was so very odd. She didn’t quite know what to say knowing what she assumed to be true. She didn’t quite seem to know how to act knowing the things that were so very true given how Clarke continued to hold her gaze with her own.

Alexandria watched as Clarke reached for a small cup of drink, she watched as she brought it up to her lips to take a sip, perhaps in an attempt to fill the awkwardness that sat around them.

Alexandria had been hidden from her past for so long that she didn’t really want it to be hidden anymore. But that wasn’t quite right. That wasn’t quite what she felt and thought.

But she needed to speak, needed to fill the silence with something else lest she fall prey to emotions better left locked behind a door so very heavy that it would remain closed no matter how hard she try.

“Have you met Agamemnon?” she asked simply because it was safe.

“Ah,” Clarke paused, looked around as if in search of the man. “No, I guess not.”

Alexandria nodded to herself as she gestured to the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Perhaps he is still sleeping.”

Clarke nodded an understanding at that.

“Is he also a past Commander?” it was a little brazen, Alexandria thought, but perhaps she could forgive the question because Clarke was Wanheda, and because the situation was so very unusual.

“Yes,” she said, her head cocked to the side as she continued to hold Clarke’s gaze, and she didn’t miss the fact Clarke’s gaze darted down to exactly where her scar was.

Alexandria found herself letting the silence linger then. In part it was because she didn’t really know what to say, but in part because she found herself intrigued, mortified, horrified and so very uncertain of how she should react. Perhaps she wanted to know Clarke more, perhaps she wanted to know more of her past than she did. But she knew that could open old wounds, she knew that could cause tensions to flare between herself and Eamon and Agamemnon, between herself and Athen—

And she paused, if only because she realised Athena would _know_ everything. Was that why Athena had let Clarke visit? To show the woman how broken she had become? She prove to her that the woman Clarke had known was truly dead, and in her place merely a husk of a spirit? Hadn’t Athena even told her she didn’t have the strength to do the right thing? And yet Alexandria didn’t really _know _what that right thing was. How could she? She didn’t have the spirit of every past Commander to guide her anymore. She didn’t even remember what that felt like.

But in that time that she remained quiet she realised Clarke’s gaze had drifted to the weapons on the wall, each one a former Commander’s, each one littered with battle scars as old as time itself.

Alexandria watched as Clarke’s gaze drifted from mighty axe to spear, dagger to sword and knife to bow and arrow until it landed on the most recent of additions. And she knew it to be _hers._

There was so much emotion in Clarke’s eyes as she took in the two swords and the single knife that were hung upon the wall, so much emotion that Alexandria didn’t know what to think.

“You were holding that,” Clarke said quietly and Alexandria watched as she gestured to the knife. “When we first met.”

Perhaps that answered a question, just one of them at least.

“We were adversaries,” it was as much question as statement as guess.

But Clarke’s lips lifted at the corner as she turned her attention back to her.

“Yeah,” there was a quiet laugh that followed that single word. “I guess you could say that,” Clarke looked away in thought for just a moment. “When we first met Indra threatened me, probably asked for permission to take my head, I didn’t understand your language then.”

Alexandria nodded, if only because she didn’t really know what else to do.

“Do you remember Indra?

That startled Alexandria. If only because she found that she hadn’t really considered the fact that others would not know how much she remembered and how much she didn’t.

“Yes,” it was a half truth, if only because she only knew Indra from the brief memories she had of her before she had been taken to Polis, before she had been trained, before she had fought in the conclave, before her memories were sealed behind a door she no longer had the keys to. “Yes,” Alexandria repeated carefully. “I know of her.”

There was a sad smile that found its way on Clarke’s lips at that and Alexandria knew Clarke must have understood.

“You saved my life with that knife,” Clarke continued quietly. “A warrior,” she paused as if to remember. “Quint,” and her lip turned up into the hints of a disgusted snarl that Alexandria thought. “He wanted me dead for a reason I haven’t bothered to remember after so long,” Clarke said. “He was going to kill me but you threw that knife and stopped him from killing me.”

Alexandria nodded, in part because she was intrigued that she would have killed one of her own warriors to save someone who had started as a foe, as an adversary.

But the laugh that broke past Clarke’s lips startled her.

“But that was really just the beginning,” and Clarke shook her head as if to rid the memory, or perhaps to clear her mind. “This _pauna_,” and she spread her arms out wide as if to communicate how big it was. “It attacked, we ran, we were almost eaten, but we escaped. Just.”

Alexandria swallowed, if only because she knew there had to be more to the story — the memory — than what Clarke had said. But she didn’t know if she wanted to know more, she didn’t know if she _needed _to know more.

She looked away in an attempt to pause the raging questions that threatened to slip past her lips. But there was a burning question she couldn’t shake, not when Clarke continued to look at her, not when she knew the answer already.

And so Alexandria took in a steadying breath as if to build up whatever walls were beginning to crumble around her before she spoke.

“We were lovers, weren’t we.”


End file.
